A story they have to tell One that can teach a lesson like a folktale
With a lot being observed And knowing that no dish has been served They grab a pencil and paper Cause the pages are still eager to be fed With things which have been head
In writing, emotions being expressed With no voice produced but speaking for the oppressed Viewing things with an eagle’s eye Writing with a sympathetic heart And with a courageous hand With the mouth shut But yet talking about the things at hand
Come pay us, the poor, visit on the land Am certain you shall also have the desire to write For those who have seen the daylight To us the sun is not bright For we don’t see what is happening Our sense of hearing Is the only thing keeping us alive!
One day you shall also believe But only when you visit where we live They once came and visited us But till now they haven’t written to us When the writers write They see a bunch of psychics among us
Poetry is the heat, a part of my flame, it keeps me cool, envelopes in a frame. Am I sentimental, idle and worthless guy? Feeling keeps me human, passions let me fly. A force compels me to etch on papers
Into the darkness, into the night, Filled with despair, no reason to survive, I lay down with everything to lose, No hope no life and reason to grow,. A winter wind passing by, Touching my skin and shiverinv by., The
The bygone art, a dead shrine; Thou not dead, thou live… shall live By art of carve that plays on and will it play Forever, timeless, in century’s lap The beauty, thou struck me a year back: So calm, so