Without poetic seed there won't be prose. The entire network of branches, twigs, flowers, fruits and leaves is nothing but a commentary on the small poetic seed. So all ye wannabe writers, nurture the poet in you, who understands the value of pause in life, who moves slowly to watch everything, sight and smell everything. Brushstrokes of poetry softly touch the soul without disrupting its restful muse and bring out nuggets of love, compassion, harmony and peace. All content © Sandeep Dahiya
With softly pining majesty,
silence sings a song,
Shadows grow long,
Her soft fingers brace my face
and go along a tear's trace.
Delicate tip of her finger bears the jewel,
A tear,
The tear that would have been
lost as a salty line on my face.
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