Poet - III

Poet – III


“The verse-writer lives by the river,
Your Majesty, in a ramshackle hut.”

“I’m inclined to believe
that such creatures form a rare breed.
Let summons be served to him at once!”

Summons were issued, the ‘creature’, a frail
short individual, was brought before the King:
“So you write poems a lot, don’t you?”

The thinned man, with eyes fixed to nothingness,
meekly replied, “Just as buds bloom into florets,
florets bear fruits, my muse inherently paints
with an untamed brush.”

“You speak well, but let this be known
that henceforth no one in my kingdom
could be allowed to misuse his own life
by scripting valueless rhymes, or influence
others for doing so.”

“Your Lordship, it grieves me to say
that you’re yet to become the absolute ruler
of a poet’s instincts.”

“What will become of your wretched
poetry, if my men behead you
this very moment?”

“That very moment, my blood
would seep beneath the earth and nourish
the flowering shrubs that I’ve planted.”

“Take this ignoble worm out of my sight!”
Imprison him, he mustn’t see sunshine again.”

“My cursed life would merge with soil & ether,
yet these chrysanthemums would remind you
Your Majesty, that they are mere prisoners
in a land where pride slaughters verses.”