Wait, and words elude
Like a bowl of dry fruits
There’s a motley of words-filled books
On the writing table,
And like an empty plate
On it appears blank paper,
As if penknife, the pen
In hand, the poet waits,
In search of the first line to start
And of inspiration
That has long deserted
Him. Alas Muse is a free bird,
So be the dodging word,
They elude all like luck,
You wait and left are high and dry,
Wait not, the birds come nigh.
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Musings |06.01.2025| Tercet, words, poet
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