It Is Not Time To Write A Poem. Poem by Subrata Ray

It is not a time to write a poem,
The flowery garden sleeps,
The being in strange malady,
As a coma patient in death bed.

Starred images, awhile ago,
Here and there peep,
To appeal their store and instant reap.

The word queen, in amorous vain,
Glided her youthful green,
And in bridal bed, under her shade,
To procreate from her fiery shrine.

It is not a time to give birth a poem,
In roaring thunders, I forget my name.
The game is over,
From passions cover,
And the mind dips into silent rime.