In the mundane darkness of the morn, <br />The world awakened in its scorn, <br />Writes the weary pen on pages torn, <br />Tales of castles and mysteries forlorn. <br /> <br />All that the heavy eyelids could snatch, <br />Whispers of the noise the ears catch, <br />Whatever could the drowsy mind match, <br />Their judged truths with unseen sorrows attach. <br /> <br />That which the bustling globe ever saw, <br />Painters on colored pages ever draw, <br />The poet with weeping smiles adorns the flaw, <br />At tranquil midnights which none but he foresaw. 23.05.2013<br /><br />Shouvik Narayan Hore<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-poet-speaks-2/
