Great things are not done by impulse, but by a series of small things brought together – Vincent Van Gogh

Meghanath

He would trudge home

Grimy and exhausted,

After corseting buildings with bamboo all day.

Moth eaten, wooden polls,

Held together with thin coir string,

Around dreams that reach

Up to catch the wind.

Precarious, wobbly,

Lives depended on it,

Often his.

And by the flickering kerosene lamp

The rice gruel boiling on the wood fire,

He inks elegant, moving verse.

His voice still floats through my reverie as I gaze up into the night sky.

Gosh, I think, “the only reason I get away with some of the tripe I write,

Is because I publish on a blog”

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