From The Bard's Pen

What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how
infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and
admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like
a god! the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals—and yet,
to me, what is this quintessence of dust? Man delights not me—
nor woman neither, though by your smiling you seem to say so.

- Hamlet

Saturday, September 17, 2011


My verses,
Sprang to life
when she sang them.
Words hovered over her lips
waiting breathlessly
for the utterance
to achieve the beauty of that music.

Often they were rinsed
with tears that escaped from
her eyes
Making the song wet...

She dreamt like me
Read meanings into my scribblings,
Loved them with a devotion
suited to a fanatic
Gathered up bits of paper
and made collages of my words.

And she let her soul
Eat every single alphabet and pause.
It didn't burp.
I had wondered at her appetite then.

I hate the resounding applause now.
The praise is all green.

She no more sings.
I no more write.

Envy asked only one question -
Who is the Creator - I or she?

No comments:

Post a Comment