When shall I start writing that Poyem?
Po’em, it is, I say!
Kavitha, to my native tongue.
Not that I use it much when I write.
But I preach in it.
Silence is its primary punctuation!
Beaches paved in it make many a memory!
Many a Kavitha unwritten gasp for air
In the furore of the waves
Spelt by its rival!
When shall I start writing that Poyem?
Kavitha it is, I say!
But not a budge.
The foreigner is experienced,
the listener is petrified,
the silent one always sleeps,
the eloquent one always scribes!
But alas, the language of the mind.
Mind numbingly unfamiliar
To the trajectory of silence.
Vitrified to say what it cannot
But painstakingly translated
Without a story of remorse
and inadequacy!
When shall I start that Poyem?
Whatever it is, I say!
The educated mind wants experience,
The initiated has ideas,
But the writhing tongue is overridden!
Blasphemy in my tongue,
But triumph in the other!
Wisdom comes after,
And repair ends never.
Inspired and confused!
Haven’t I already stated the Idea?
When shall I start writing that Poyem?
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