Christuraj Alex Poet Sonnet

I must speak my words

Does a nightingale speak of the source of her song?
Do any peacocks proclaim the cause of their dance?
Doesn't music flow in the vibrance of a gong?
Don't nature's notes put existence into a trance?

I thought my poems would change this world. I was wrong.
Who reads poems these days? If so, shouldn't I write?
With coarse words and mute cords, I still sing all day long;
it's not with swords or guns—it's with my pen I fight.

My notebooks and diaries are scattered around.
Penury has devoured the roof of my old hut.
I feel as though in my own silence I am drowned;
like a cracked gramophone, my worn-out words I rut.

When buds bloom full and nectar feeds the birds,
Must I remain so choked to speak my words?

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