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A weary pen when ponders
What brings you back, O Sailor from journey—
Coffers of golden words of poetry,
Or precious pearls, nuggets from depth of sea?
I’d gone to explore once as an old man,
Rudderless, and with nothing more than pen,
No wonder to return bare-handed then.
Explored I’ve for two scores and more years now,
And shudder to take journey’s stock somehow,
Bare few, if at all, made have I to wow.
And at this frayed end of my life with pen,
How do I feel? On a dunghill a hen,
Who clamours shrill, few bothers to listen.
Fine still for one that sails for no treasure,
To pass idle time, nor tame some leisure,
If pen should toil for my soul’s sole pleasure.
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Tercet |01.05.2024| poet, introspection
Copyright ©
Aniruddha Pathak
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