Towards the endless expanse of
blue,
The skylark flies, carefree and
chaste.
The keen eyes of the poet
Spot the bird dwelling amongst
the clouds;
While the anxious mortal eye
Sees the world pass by,
Beset with worries,
Strangled by promises,
And bound with chains.
The poetic eyes dwelt on the
Beauty of its feathers,
Softness of its colour,
And the bliss in its flight.
But anxiety was deep founded
In the mortal eye.
They saw the darkness of the
clouds
Encompassing the bird, and
failed to see
The depth of its reflection
On the waters of life.
A little boy gazed up towards
eternity,
And witnessed a bevy of skylarks
circling
The rubicund sky.
He asked his father, “Father,
can you bring me
That bird from the sky?”
His father sighed and said,
“Boy, the skylarks
Know the strength of freedom;
Cannot be bound to mortals like
us,
Cannot be chained,
Only the poet can bind them with
Immortality,
By the magic of their verse,
But keeping them free
From the worries of life.”
The mind loses out
On the flights of fantasy,
And thoughts cling on to worries—
Hoping to resolve dubiety,
Hoping to delve into everything.
But hope, the crepitating flame,
Flickers amidst the dubious
ambience.
Sorrow and bliss, comfort and
cheer,
Adversity and life and death,
Hatred and love—the mind and
heart
Of the poet sets verse into
feelings,
Makes rhyme out of life,
Turns stone into a flower
And ravens into skylarks.
While humanity gapes blankly
At the greatness of the form,
Full of anxiety, full of
worries.
But the words cleave
Through the rib cages,
Into the red fort of feelings;
Penetrate the cranium,
Moving mankind’s mind.
And such is the greatness of
poetry,
When gapes turn into
comprehension,
And blankness finds life in those
words,
And sorrow hides its face in
shame
And bliss, like the sun of the
dawn,
Shines at dusk.
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