Poetry as it Comes to Me

Like a thin line of marching clouds
Letters follow letters in a leafy image of procession
Images of silence drop dead in torrential rains
The images that break open my heart of lengthening silence
I wake up in a labyrinth of melting shadows
I hear the sounds of the depth of night
I see lesser moments of dancing time
Knocking at my closer circle of whispering senses
A white swan resounds the voice of angelic words
Words resembling words in withering images
The images that trickle in millions of colours
Blooming and blushing in rumbling silences
Fears and cheers paint a silver lining on a coastal voyage
As if to bleed my heart in ecstatic pains
And I writhe with the baby's first cry into the twilight delight
And a poem is born in words and images out of all seasons.

A poem is born out of suchness of all seasons
A poem is born when hunger stokes fire out of all reasons
A poem is born when my unwept pains speak so cryingly
When love says love to love one and all so endearingly
A poem is born when my silence whispers something to tear apart
As if million muffled voices will roar into a laughter for a start
A poem is born when cry of unborn pleasures resound
When shocks of anguished pains rebound all around
A poem is born out of the prophetic voices from the yonder
When sighs of the shackles all at once burst asunder.

And sighs of the shackles will die down
When letters of love and equality will resemble a word
And the words will paint the whole sky in million colours
A silver lining will blze the trail of unbound darkness
A poem will be born out of all the bones and skins of me
And I will write a symphony of love, O My Beloved.