by Vivekanand Jha

I write with ink of blood

To testimonialize and give

A touch of eternity to it

But my poem falters and falls

In the poetry of the world.

I pluck words from

A flowry and ornated garden

And weave a garland of them

To adorn the world

But they trample it

Under their feet

Like they crush the stub

Of the cigarete to prevent it

From catching the fire.

I discover the words

Hidden in the unhaunted

Recess of the mind

And juxtapose them

Like an ideal couple

Of bride and bridegroom

At bridal chamber

And turn my poem on new leaf

But they tilt their stony eyes

And turn deaf ears to it.

I infuse my heart and soul

Into the poem

Thinking it would be

The best and the last of my life

But they simply say:

Since it is the beginning

You would learn by mistakes.