I saw him again, Sir Verseworth..
this time, waiting for me.
Before him lay a parchment,
and a feather dipped in ink.
Not to spare a moment,
my petty mind began to think:
“Here lies he,
who, with insight, shall see.
Too many feathers to his cap,
dipped in ink, most of ’em.
Wandering places found in no map,
from a soul in wanderlust, great verses stem.
Is it just another hour of dawn,
where I read his verse, and let epiphanies dawn?”
The parchment, empty,
the quill, dry.
Sir Verseworth would cry:
“Come hither! Come hither!
Let the autumn leaves whither,
or let the flowers of spring bloom,
or let the world brim with gloom.
Yet, you come hither!”
This dawn was different.
He was being indifferent.
“Be it a raging tempest,
or the roughest of tides,
there’s no such tranquil
as a pen drop silence.
The past or its diabolic sting
or the pangs of a wounded wing,
the merry of a mother post labour
or that grateful smile from your neighbour;
every ounce of it, a verse can take.
Multitudes more than that, a verse can give.
A part of the bigger paradox
is all that poetry is.
The deeper you go,
the higher you reach.
Somewhere, treading over infinity,
shall you find the summit
elegantly lurking in the abyss.
Only if your shovel was a pen,
shall you dig deeper.
Stop not at the springs your way,
for deeper inside, lies the core.
Let the ink fill empty parchments,
let its trail fill empty souls.“
The quill was dry.
It wouldn’t be, once I try!