Through your eyes, I see
The world of imaginations,
The hope within me
Which decree,
Perhaps my poetry.
What good you did to me?
Unshackled my thoughts,
Revived my essence,
Transformed my ability,
Discovered a young poet within me.
But also instilled subsequent fear:
What if I ever lost my creativity?
It wouldn’t be a miracle,
As rust casts on iron,
Making it all dull and feeble.
The same will happen to me
As I too am a mortal;
Fog settles in our hearts,
The vision of our third eye is blurred.
A prickly garrote strangles our throat;
The message is still there,
But we can’t decipher it anymore.
And the young poet grows old,
The transformation—
Invisible to the normal eye.
Our imagination mourns,
And muses cry,
Thinking of which, before death,
A poet’s heart dies.
But my heart, the little companion of my dear life,
Is not worried about this.
What good of a poet am I,
Who’s not scared of losing words?
That’s because I know,
More than anyone, I know:
How can I ever lose
My words and essence,
Or the young poet within me
Whom I’ll always treasure?
For the music of words,
Which harmonize with the dance of my soul,
Is a gift I owe to you—
The miracles of my poetic muse.