Thoughtless is my mind in this eclipsed night.
Poetic urge has not yet aroused in active yen.
How would I write poem when it is writing me?
Mind has turned into a blank untouched page
And it is writing its reflection upon the sheet.
Without topic a poem is expressed in words
In the soft unspoken shrine of the white leaf.
Yet in the inner river of thought, the stream
Is flowing without motive, as if it were dead,
Though I am seated on table with poetic pen.
Mind is tuneless still creating rhythmic poem,
Hand is numb yet digging with a pen-dagger.
A Poet can’t stop its impulsive flowing hand.
Life can be boring yet goes on like waterfall,
Death is aching yet comes with enticing call