Poetry, is he the house of words that formed in my brain
Or a storm of hidden pain in the heart.
Poetry, is he the dark sky of my upset night
Or the touch of a cloud touching my window.
Poetry, is he the wing of the blue bird drawn in my pencil
Or tears in the corner of the eye.
Poetry, is he my first getting wet in the rain
Or the song of cashew flowers in my autumn chest.
Poetry, is he the first flower of my failed love
Or any old mistake that comes back as a memory.
Farjana Nishita 