Poetry: An Endless Story

In my late night's
deepest dream

I see, how I save poetry
not to let it be remain
a tiny drop of thirst and ambiguity.

streams of chaotic thoughts
where passing by life feels...
so lonesome.
find its way to blossom
on tip of the grass;
grown on broken stone with philosophy
but still lonesome.


poetry never wants to return
in dark old thoughts of slavery
with no certain and hopeless life
but still life.

Poetry is at war with wisdom
but searches wisdom.
Words where don't play but;
a mere illusion.

This is the moment
when my senses warn me
to stop writing poetry, to save it.
with the sun of midnight
dreams of nocturnal empathy
and with hopeless philosophy

Not to let it be, but poetry!


Krishna Rai
03:51 AM 5/12/2006