My Son,

Life is a prosaic poem

Decoded by spoken words

Living is a poem

Understood by a tip of sand…

Hmmmm. ..My son,

If my life will be a poem,

Write me poetry

To be read in each poem

Of the multitudes…

Then –

Will I live on what I left undone

For death will surely knock my head

I will knock your certain head

We will all knock death’s head

At the centre of timeless banter!


Except you are of something

Nothing will ever heal you

You may sway athwart by time –

Spend on searching for living

Or will all pros on prosaic poems


Nothing will ever heal you my son

You may be an excerpt of praises

Or the creator of creatures

By one in a million phrases…

Except you excel out of your weakness!


Though you walk on the rage of ocean

Or be the tides of religion

Nothing will ever heal you my son,

Though you puke what was…

Except you except something for all thing!


Nothing, I say these words!

Nothing, my beloved son of my quill

Nothing, see agama nodding his crested head…

Except you are of change you want to see

On this mold… O’ my son!…

(To be continue…)

c. Natur’s Pictur N’quill.


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