When the sun falls in another tangerine glass and moon bestow ivory to the sky, I wonder how many existences and mortal souls has poetry kept alive and bonafide.
Do words flow like winds and blow life to moribund? Or do they keep giving birth to lines that bloom into a poetry, whose ending is yet to grow but carry spirits that were left to be rotten.
Are words enough to shelter fading hearts into poems rather than burying them in graveyards? Or are they a mere voice of broken hut mourning for the lost wave of hope that curled across the resting sea last time, when grief was spilled from the pen of a bard.
When the sun settles back to the margin of blue sky and moon slips down to slumber, I still wonder how many lives has poetry kept alive, and how many emotions has poetry abandoned to be rusted and drowned in loveliest demise. ~Purva