Poetry is a room
With a single window.
When the morning sun
Pounces on my eyes,
I keep the light saved
In my poor slow heart,
And hope to call it my art.

On a moonless night,
Playful shadows remain hidden
In my small room,
In the corners covered with cobwebs.
I gaze into the pitch dark
Night, taking in the scanty stars.
The stars in the black sky
Become words of poetry.

When the gibbous moon
Tiptoes into my small room,
I bring out the shadows,
And mix them with
My dream of meadows
On a bright sunny day.
I use the grey cobwebs
To lace the moonbeam
That falls on the floor;
An alchemy to find fairy
Words for my poetry.

The sunlight and the shadows,
The moonbeam and the meadows
Mingle in the cold cauldron
Of my heart, giving off the
Fragrance of withered roses;
Poetry makes me a waif wanton,
A room within a room,
Shadows chasing each other
Laughing, crying, lying prone
To smell the earth's loneliness.
A poet's privilege: laughing alone.

Sharmila PupuMitra30 April 2018

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