The Poor Man

Today this poor man Begs you once again, For one more tragedy, For the sake of his pen. It has been an age Since I have drunk of sorrow, Stir tears into pain, Make it twice as fierce. This blank sheet of paper Watches me silently, A caravan of poems Is lost in a desert of words. I want to walk With the ache of the thorn in my foot, Whatever be the distance, my friend, From sorrow to the grave. Even pain has turned its back upon me. Come back! says Prabh, You have been my tale For a long, long time!