The poem comes with the rays of the sun,
reflecting from the river water
that dances in frolic and fun.
Poet’s thought, beyond his imagination,
with cosmic energy, always passes,
from the moon of marmoreal smoothness
across planets sheathed in verdure grasses.
And then the poem speaks in the dark night
readying for its fresh sprouting
from the poet’s fertile mind.
Silently, without crying and shouting,
a river of words flows
from his as yet dried pen,
whose waves become its lifeline,
surrounding him like heaven.
Then, the poet writes a poem
on a child’s blank mind,
wiping his pearly tears,