Writing so profound,
Everywhere easily found,
Never difference village and town,
Presence all over and around,
Ask, child of town,
How does he feel writing in golden pen?
And villages, who don’t have pen,
None to share pain around,
Writing comes and enters,
Where ever as thought,
Just a pin point (pen) ,
Can depict the hidden notes,
Sometime ‘it’ changes fate,
Sometime appears as distinguish color,
Justify any quote in many forms,
Like rainbow, writing appears as, strange
Seven unique colors of the sky,
Sometime dignify our personality,
Sometime redefine our self,
It is medicine,
And become addiction to everyone
Not scary, but haunt as exam,
It is nightmare,
Almost comes in daily sleep,
It is angel, blesses to achieve,
It is present,
It is past,
And future
Being present, tool to correlate,
Mode to exchange idea,
Even after advancement, writing is as it is,
Our existence, is fake without past,
Future have unlimited needs,
Innovation has pleasure to read,
Thus, it is reliable,
Nothing is readable, unless written……..
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
writing yes its the mirror of one's mind superb poem a tenner for you anjali