Legacy of a Wandering Soul

the dry bed of a river is fertile,
lush green foliage spread unbridled,
while the stream changes its course,
flowing with passion
or trickling listlessly,
yearning for the wet touch of rain.
It weaves its way
towards the heaving breast
of an ocean,
that drowns
the unrequited love of
many a rivers,
turning their sweet longing
to coarse salt on drifting sand,
the sand that bears
my footprints -
the ephemeral legacy
of a wandering soul.

Giving Birth to Poetry

Some days,
you know
the words won’t come,
Yet, you scribble
and strike through-
and scribble some more.
As if,
the sheer persistence,
the repeated carving
of ink on paper
will birth a miracle.
As if,
a poem will be born
of restless pursuit
of an illusion.
As if,
the verse will flow,
where words run dry.