
Originally Posted by
ritudimrinautiyal
All that incompleteness inside me
Is the hunger, different every time,
Craving for the different taste of thoughts,
to get done,
Is the loneliness, always in search for different meaning,
To weave a profound crochet, out of strings of imagination.
As the ragpicker picks all that, whatever can be later, of value,
The mind picks the drops of life around, and freezes it inside, for the coming time due,
And the glaciers to melt, when the moments want river to flow,
That's how my poem comes into existence,
As words find a direction to go.
And to tell, imperfection still exists,
And the incompleteness is born again,
And this relay has to go on and go on,
Since the baton is always on pass.
Ritu Dimri Nautiyal
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