wordless pity...

once
when the final breeze
was gone and dead,
and when the last ray
was about to dissolve,
he just woke
from his sleep
of not knowing,
hungry was he
to the fullest
of it, he found nothing
but the dry left overs
of the precedent poets
and of murderers..
there he sat,
not letting the temptation
to take over,
all he needed was
words, just some words,
to decorate his poem,
first ever poem,
of no source
of no real inspiration
but
to dedicate to her..
he knew her not,
but even before
the poem was born,
he knew it was
for her alone,
something told him
that his first poem
would kill him or
take him to altitude
that he would never like..
but..
pity him
not even a word
came as it was
not just a poem
of normal beauty,
but it was divine,
the surrounding responded
the upcoming birth
of the holy poem,
but
there he sat still
awaiting his first word..
then came the first star
reminding his
maid's stud,
he jumped in joy,
assuming that
he got his word..
but still
he could not pen..
then came the distant flute
must be of the mad follower
of krishna himself,
the poet hated krishna
these days,
as he himself was once
krishna ..
and his life as krishna
was the best and
the most joyous
still not his favorite..
so even the flute
fell ill in bringing
his first word..
sad and silent
he closed his eyes
not to think
of anything..
not to sleep too..
he just sat..
and sat...
thus,
the poem started
writing him..
...