I pushed it out of my belly,
Almost breathless,
I picked it up, a bloodied mass,
Turned it over, looked at it from all sides
I twisted it, stretched it, crushed it,
Does it grow ? Does it shrink,
Is it warm, is it cold, soft, hard?
Then I tossed it out in to the sea,
It was my child,
Fathered by Love,
I called it Pain.
Perhaps this could have stayed unstated,
ReplyDeleteHad our words turned to other things
In the gray park , the rain abated,
Life would have quickened other strings.
I list your gifts in this creation:
...Pen ,paper ,ink and inspiration .
Peace to the heart with touch or word,
Ease to the soul with note and chord.
How did that walk,those winter hours,
Occasion this?No lightning came ;
Nor did I sense ,when touched by flame,
Our story lit with borrowed powers-
Rather,by what our spirits burned,
Embered in words, to us returned.
- "An equal music" (Vikram Seth)
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