Not Yet Ready To Die Poem by Abdul Wahab

i do not want my poems to go down
the pages of poetry groups
like a tiny grain of sand
and let them rot somewhere
in the nether world
It's a flying insult to a poet
working like an ounce
of decomposing salt
on his rays of hope and flickering ambition
and a huge dishonour shown
to the drops of sweat
and red corpuscles of blood
with which they are passionately written
I answer when I am asked
why I pin my poems up
Nor I crave to send them
to an administrator or an erudite editor
to have them a place
in their ensuing journals and anthologies
because these are the leaves
matured and yellow
fallen upon the banks of my soul
from my wisdom tree so long which I cared and nourished
in the autumn season of my life
to give me accompany in my forlorn time
they are my treasure more valuable than
the wealth of seven kingdoms
and remember
they are entirely for me and not for sale
though sometimes they may be exhibited
to serve the cause and for the interest of people
but never meant to flaunt
nor they are meant for any prizes or recognition
as I never want to kill my hunger
nor I want to murder my spirit
that hankers to do better and better
and you are finished
as soon as you receive them
or conferred upon or honoured with
but I am here on my way,
on the never ending rising curve
and not yet ready
to die
in such a green age.