My poem from long back. I had read this piece in a forwarded mail, about an old lady, who says that the heart of someone who has lived a meaningful life, is full of bruises and cuts, because that is what makes it human. Can't really recall the complete context. She was probably tending to a hurt grandchild. Some of you may remember...
Give me a knife,
Because I wish to carve myself.
Burn me with fire,
So I can prove my tenacity.
Cast me like iron,
Into a figure not replicable.
Chisel out my edges,
So I can be perfect.
Give me a soul,
So I can come to life.
Stab me with a knife,
So I can feel the pain.
Patch up my wound,
And make me human.
Give me a knife,
Because I wish to carve myself.
Burn me with fire,
So I can prove my tenacity.
Cast me like iron,
Into a figure not replicable.
Chisel out my edges,
So I can be perfect.
Give me a soul,
So I can come to life.
Stab me with a knife,
So I can feel the pain.
Patch up my wound,
And make me human.
So beautiful you write now I think you should go for the publication of a collection.
ReplyDeleteThank you Sanjay ji, that means a lot coming from you. If I get enough of them together and with God's grace maybe I could publish one day.
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