Smear a little on Your fingertips
As they glide dexterously
Turning parchment into golden.
Let the ink drip
Caress the soft light of Your eyes
As they bask lovingly
Tracing pictures into strokes.
Let the ink drip
Get streaked in Your hair
As they curl luxuriously
Gathering winds into sighs.
Let the ink drip
Flow from the depths of Your mind
As it flies endlessly
Transforming worlds into words.
Let the ink drip
Enraptured in the beauty of Your soul
As it warms eternally
Dissolving my life into Yours.
-
Parekh, Pravesh
August 26, 201405:05 AM; 05:30 AM (mod.)
That's lovely!
ReplyDeleteA writer's romance with ink! I do not think there is a greater tribute to the art of writing than this. It is wonderfully phrased, complex and intricate in it's subtle simplicity! I enjoyed reading it immensely, and I would probably often visit the post, and think of this poem whenever ink leaks onto my hands, or I spill ink onto a page!
ReplyDeleteI came visiting this place after a long time and this is what I get to savor! Brilliant work ! You speak of it as the air we breathe, the Ink that you mention here. Yet comfortably speak of it as a muse and how it is a companion to many of us. I might miss out on things to say what Ink means to me but you pretty much have woven this thread into gold perfectly. Thank you!
ReplyDeleteIt seems the ink has replaced the blood flowing in your viens :)
ReplyDelete