Thursday, 20 December 2007


Words, running through these pages
Strung into verse, tale and book,
Or hung on threads invisible
Moving back and forth amongst us;
All to whom I have gone as a pilgrim,
Nay, a seeker–for peace, comfort, understanding,
Words again, that strike as trite now,
To our too-accustomed, cynical ears
That catch din, clamour ever so better.

They should walk
Only so far,
Never cross thresholds
That marks them
As treasures,
For having fallen over
They can never quite
Raise themself.
Rag pickers, now.

1 comment:

Abhinav said...

Very nice. I'm taking a bow!!!
Just some changes that you've overlooked in a hurry: That mark them, Raise themselves. Cheers! A memorable blog.

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