Poetry of The Morning & The Evening
What is poetry? What are you writing now?
Poetry is poetry,
What take you for,
What am I,
What do they take it for,
Poetry is poetry,
The poetry of life, the poetry of the world,
The world is poetry,
My poetry, your poetry, their poetry
And we ever lost in creating,
Adding to the treasure of it.
Poetry of the morning and of the sunrise,
Birds twittering, lotuses opening
And the sunlight faling upon
The dew-spalshed lotus petals,
Pink, bluish and white,
The morning walkers walking
And the joggers joggin in the park
In the bermuda,
The sadhus taking a bath
And doing suryanamskar,
With the folded hands bowing before the golden sun,
Reddish and pink appearing on
As a disc from the furnace
Or a rose.
Poetry of the evening, he writes about,
Of the sunset, the evening and the nightfall,
The birds chirping to return to their nests
As it getting dark and opaque,
The cattle returnign at twilight,
Winding their ways
With the lulls from the bells tied around the necks,
The foxes from the burrows glimpsing,
The bats like the circus artistes readying
To take wings
From their downward swinging and hanging,
The owls readying to flutter
And ogling from the bark of the tree seated on
And the nights to be soaked with moonlight
And the fireflies to marvel us
Apart ffrom teh nights sweetly scented
With a variety of exotic and indigenous jasmines.
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