Creator

My verses,

Half-dead,

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

Always.

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?