Under the hands of ancient sun
We wash our thoughts
And leave them amidst the blades of grass,
To be soaked again
By the watery faces of clouds.
A game of recycling is played everyday
On the transparency of life.
Rain makes some words fertile
Some are still barren,
Waiting with a curious mind, full of yearning
To be chosen
For painting red a poem of love.
Thoughts recycle adding something new every time. Some thoughts may solidify at some point and result in a beautiful poem.
In just three sentences you PAINT a fine 'portrait' of how the psyche of human beings work while producing and reproducing as well as 'recycling' a thought or a series of thoughts.. You could have easily added Imagism and Mystycism as a topic for this poem Sanjukta.. A brilliant read. Thanks for sharing. A perfect 10 :)
For painting and reading a poem of love, ancient sun has kept emotion under hands to wash new thoughts in to interesting imagery. Fantastic poem shared...10
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Zenith of creativity, unmatched and unparallel................Classic poem yet again...SN Loved it, joy to read again and again.