The Open Winedow

Poetry just budding to child
In the embryo of my soul
To step down the earth
Depressed with my accustomed efforts
Of creating poetry –
Declined to emerge as usual
In the coarse paper
To get printed
In same ink of rainbow
By same quill pen
That dazzled the world
As myth and mystery
Of war, terror and hatred
Instead my poetry asked
My inner eyes
To touch the world
Peeping through the open window
Of its eyes – mingling with the glow of dawn.

From this moment stolen by my poetry
My unfortunate poet refrained himself
in creating poetry –
Quite amazing this moment
For the poetry created the poet.
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