Has the spring of poetry faded away?
In a deluge of falling leaves,
When the shadows and lights are at play,
Like transient doubts and beliefs.
Have words become faceless apparitions,
Gazing into the boundless night,
At ancient numberless constellations,
And the space beyond their light.
has the steel of the world quenched the poet,
his soul a captive of its cage,
so those times when he fervently wept,
was but an impalpable mirage.
Who is the solitary figure?
Striding before the grey cloud haze,
So his white robe is astir,
And the elf-locks hide his face.
So the air is scent laden,
And brings memories of long ago,
Like the smile of a person ,
Who lives in form and mass no more.
Who are you strange mendicant,
Who sings songs I couldn’t define,
There were days that I spent,
Thinking they were all mine.
Who are you lone traveler?
Your steps have an echo that I knew,
So I must delve deeper,
To find that face within you.
“I am a mendicant, a story teller,
I am poetry and a metaphor.