Poets, in some way, are also kings,
But they wish to rule over
A world empire
Of hearts and minds.
Perhaps, sometimes
We fail to remember
That only when we lose
Our egoistic desires
In the serene transience of a dewdrop,
In the solemn humbleness of a leaf of grass;
Only when we see
The glory of life
In the mystery of the shimmering smile
Of a dreaming child;
And the blindness of nature
In the divine vision of the eyes
Of a dying old man;
Only when …
Only then we are poets.
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