I have sworn to the rain
To trail its path in mid-September;
When the clouds are gone
And the red Sun blooms:
I will trail your paths,
On beds and falls, to perhaps find
That long dawn that calms the dew.
I’m a purple soul, and my path is mine;
But like December never comes alone
So I make these steps for the North-East wind
That later blows and off my soul.
M. V. Echa
Author’s Note: Some poets write to find that masterpiece poem or collection of poems, but some poets write to find that one line of poetry that makes sense of it all.
Poetry is the best response to this bewildered world. It is the snippet view of what’s left of our common soul. How deep it can go, no depth measures; but still we thrive, to perhaps find that sweet unfeeling that accompanies an impersonal soul.
Poetry is the way out of a gross life, even if it be for a very short while. For then we may find wholeness, or at least see the different shades of colours that make for our flowery lives.