There are so many unsaid things in this world. Every day so many words die. Some deaths are good and some are sad but every death should be realised. In a life dominated by worthless tensions, your words are the most priceless possessions. Their existence and demolition are in your hands. So, here is an ode to the dead words:
Of Wordsworth, Shakespeare and Yeats,
Of masters and poets like Keats,
Of others who struggled to breathe,
Died endless words which never inked the paper, beat!
Words, which could have narrated a story meek or mighty,
Words, which could have displeased the deity,
Words, which were too bold to be brought to be bought,
Words, which were too bogus to be kept to be thought, beat!
Of crisp winters were they shivering bare,
Ignored by their masters in dearth of dare,
Of sweaty summers were they perspiring underneath,
Blown away by the winds of wisdom in heat, beat!
Words, which you wrote on air in dreams,
Words, which you wrote in the steamy mist of shower streams,
Words, which you wrote yet crumbled back in bins,
Words, which fainted underneath the fear of drowning without fins, beat!
Of a spring, which they never saw,
Of a fling, to which they never spoke,
Of a night, from which they never woke,
Of a height, they were barred from law, beat!
Are any words worthless?
Are any words feckless?
Are these to be lost by a mind reckless?
Are these to be debased on grounds of memory backless?
Think for all what you could have written,
Think of all what you could have said,
Of sonnets and statements, fear-bitten,
Of apologies and arguments unsaid, beat!
Beat! For all, you lost in those words,
Beat! For everything you gained in loss of those words,
Beat! For all that, those unwritten words would have made you,
Beat! For bringing alive the life in words which won’t survive you….
Kritika
The bud that never bloomed…
Thewanderlustweb 