There was a poet in a city. He believed that it is his poems that run this world. He is doing a favor by writing out of his intellect and everyone else is naive and ignorant about the truths of life.
One day, he encountered a mason sipping tea at a nearest tea stall. He went across to him to boast-” I have written poems that will be read by eternities to come. What have you done?”
“You write your poem. I write mine. Different poems we write, Poet!! Yours has a charm that I do admire. But dare you demean mine.” The mason said. Poet was silent.
“Your poem seeps into paper. Mine erupts from the womb of earth to shelter the eternities that your poems crave for. When the world is busy in livelihood, I sing sonnets of concrete laden by my sweat, blood and bones.
“Your poems talks about beloved. Mine gives her floor to walk, so that her feet remain soft and delicate for your charm. Think of how your poem remind people of their emptiness. How lovers yearn more for each other as they read you to add on their despair. Mine brings them closer. Yours glorifies distances and laments. Bridging the river, threading the cities and banking the tides, mine shortens them. You surrender to geography. I challenge it.”
“Yours often is a blasphemy that ridicules the divine. Mine is a symphony to Thee. I built upon the poems in which the world seeks Him. Yours merely consoles, shows gloom. In best of your hopeful ones, when you seek hope and show the way; mine Becomes The Way. Mine Is The Way. You write in cloud haze. I substantiate the walk-able lanes.”
“Yours is a stamp on time that can’t be changed. Mine can be molded all over again. Mine is concrete yet soft. Yours is soft, yet rigid. Yours is a battlefield of thoughts and emotions. Mine is a habitat of harmony.”
And the Poet smiled….and thought of sharing this to the world as he writes.
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