Not someplace or somewhere
Do we ever find home.
Never by words and schemes
Do we ever find love.
Home is a lifetime
And love is a traveller on a course to you.
Dates, wines and jingling bells
All are nothing but summer dew
For from nights to nights and coming falls
The heart still longs for someone due.
Who else knows of the muse and tales
That accompany a broken heart
That awaken the memories of the first moonlight
And are stalking reflexions of the gone sunshine.
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.