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One of the ancients,once said that poetry is "the mirror of the perfect soul." Instead of simply writing down travel notes or, not really thinking about the consequences, expressing your thoughts, memories or on paper, the poetic soul needs to seriously work hard to clothe the perfect content in an even more perfect poetic form.
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What is poetry?


Reading books RomanceThe unity of form and content is what distinguishes poetry from other areas of creativity. However, this is precisely what titanic work implies.
Not every citizen can become a poet. If almost every one of us, at different times, under the influence of certain reasons or trends, was engaged in writing his thoughts, then it is unlikely that the vast majority will be able to admit to themselves that they are a poet.
Genre of poetry touches such strings in the human soul, the existence of which a person either didn’t suspect, or lowered them to the very bottom, intending to give them delight.


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Read books online » Poetry » When The Day Dawned by Rafiq Sandeelvi (ink book reader .TXT) 📖

Book online «When The Day Dawned by Rafiq Sandeelvi (ink book reader .TXT) 📖». Author Rafiq Sandeelvi



When The Day Dawned  

The day was yet to dawn.
From the warmth of my cosy bed,
as I stepped out of the house,
the entire town slept;
a gigantic cocoon,
in its depth,
the silkiness of existence,
folded in the mystique of darkness,
in the aura of a wasteland from ancient times,
as if the roads, fields, houses and trees cast by a magic spell;
time, to its core drunk with antiquity,
environs perpetuating colour.
In the timelessness of eternity,
in the mute fog,
people in their bed-chambers crouched in sleep,
the radiant moonlight in the sky paled.
A deathly silence,
flames in clay-lamps dwindling to their end.
A probable rain ahead.
Right above the street, chunks of clouds coursed the sky.
Shivering in the wintry wind adjusting the folds of the dark shawl around my body,
wiping away from the canopy of tearful eyes,
images of children serenely asleep,
mumbling to myself,
I reached the riverside,
got into the boat.

The day was yet to dawn.
Yearning for the other shore,
my boat moved with the rushing waves.
The morning star winked.
The boat, water,
the sail, the oars, the darkness and my drowsy self,
all elements converged into one:
a long lost memory flowered in the heart.
Then the day dawned.
The sun took over at noon,
shadows crawled in the descending light,
evening fell,
then darkness cloaked all.
A journey of several hundred nights at last touched the shore.

When the next day dawned,
my house was draped in mourning.

Imprint

Translation: Yasmin Hameed
Publication Date: 04-19-2014

All Rights Reserved

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