I looked back
And I thought
What a long way
I have come…
I looked ahead
And I thought
What a long way
I still need to go…
My destination appears nowhere in sight…
My journey remains endless…
As I lie down to rest,
My legs feel weary,
But Sleep, like a truant child,
Teases my eyes, refuses to bring any comfort…
Something snaps inside me;
My body twists and contorts in pain,
My soul writhes in agony and the cauldron of my being shakes violently
With the force of my raging emotions.
As I hold my breath, I brace myself,
for the birth of my new story, long, difficult, and painful…
The last two lines describe how a poem is born. A well written poem. You may like to read two of my poems, titled 'Biography Of A Poem' and 'Poetic Stagnation'.
As I hold my breath, I brace myself, for the birth of my new story, long, difficult, and painful A lovely write.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The intensity of the impact that a poem is supposed to make on the reader can be judged by the churning that it has to go through prior to its taking an actual shape. Thanks, Jasbir ji. But Sleep, like a truant child, Teases my eyes, refuses to bring any comfort… My soul writhes in agony and the cauldron of my being shakes violently