An emotional me found the world
all beautiful and romantic.
I became Keats for a moment
and searched for the 'thing of beauty'.
The Wordsworth in me was overwhelmed by
the everlasting chant of the Highland lass.
And I found myself in the tranquility
Of mellifluent rustles of the casuarinas.
An idealist me imagined another world
Where people lived in ecstasy and bliss.
But alas! Can it be a "Paradise Lost"
If I become blind for a while and write?
The realist me shattered my dreams and I realised
That I am living in a world of woes and worries;
And the thing of beauty is nowhere to be seen.
Rich is becoming richer and might, not right
has become the order of the day.
Am I writing a poem just for poem's sake?
Oh! Sorry, my revered Worsworths', Miltons' and Keats',
For I want my poem to reflect the
Spirit of my times.