Poetry is born in the dead of night
It is born when the sun is high.
Poetry takes birth when sorrow clings on to you,
When elation takes your side.
Poetry is a love child,
A token of exchanges unbridled
It is what is left behind when love is gone
Poetry is born of moaning and wanting more
It is a leftover feeling after day’s rigmarole.
Poetry is born of smoky mountains and pensive evenings
It is made of what shall be and what has been!