Poetry Collection by Prabhat Verma
My poetry is not an opinion expressed. It is a song which either arises from a bleeding wound, or from a smiling face.


Wait, wait yet awhile my eager friend,
I shall yield but too soon this wasted thing,
Whose agony overwrought and useless,
Exhausts your patience.
I would not have your honest hunger,
Wait upon these moments.

But this chain, through made of a breath,
Is hard to break,
And the will to die,
Stronger than all things strong,
Is stayed by a will to live,
Feebler than all things feeble,
Forgive me comrade, for I tarry too long.

It is the memory that holds my spirit,
A procession of distant days,
A vision of youth spent in a dream,
A face that bids my eyelids not to sleep,
A voice that lingers in my ears,
A hand that touches my hand,
Forgive me that you have waited too long.

It is over now and all is faded,
The face, the voice, the hand and the
Mist that bought them hither.
The knot is untied.
The cord is cleaved.
And that which is neither food nor drink is withdrawn.

Approach my hungry comrade,
The board is made ready,
And the fare, the frugal and the spare,
Is given with love.
Come, and dig your beak here, into the left side.
And tear out of its cage, this smaller bird,
Whose wings can beat no more;
I would have it soar with you into the sky.
Come now, my friend, I am your host tonight,
And you my welcome guest.


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