I am sketching a picture from my memory in the Remembrance of days past
What nights were those when all that exists in heavens and on earth was in perfect harmony except my heart
My heart was not at ease, a rage, haste, a rainbow, of all youthful bliss at once shaken by a strange rhythm
For God knows only how draughtful lips of lovers are in midst of rain and flood
Even the words of a poet lacks the intensity he have in imagination
Reality to a bibliophile is a detached thought like the dead coming to life, a barren land turned into a garden
Like Jesus a poet brings to life what is dead and rotten “Rise Lazarus come out” and the words started pouring out
All that life is not is in the written word, all that is not practical is in the living
She whispered, “Awake, arise or be forever fallen?”
Like the rising sun, the poet in me came to life and shines like a moon in the drowsy nights
What to say of time when it slows down in presence of a women? Time ceases at once
What else poetry would be if not inspired by nature alone but a feminine love?
In such dexterity I wrote another poem tonight in a poetic mood
The Portrait of an Artist 