There lies the blank page
dressed in pristine white
lifeless, wordless, hopeless,
unaware of its purpose,
unaware of its reason of existence.
What is its story?
Does it has the same identity (like all others)?
More the emptiness, more springs the questions,
flying aimlessly in search of answers.
On a rainy night, it becomes a boat
in little, tender hands;
to a roadside vendor,
it becomes another wrapper;
in hands of an housewife,
it becomes never-ending, pending list;
in an artist's hands,
it becomes a beautiful moment;
but only in the hands of a writer,
it becomes a timeless, priceless, flawless piece of treasure.
No comments:
Post a Comment