Poets

Maybe I’m no human, humans are different; They can walk, they can sit, and they can wander room to room They are different; they are afraid of death, scared of snakes. Maybe I’m no human. Then how can snakes raise no fear within me?

'Cause a poem will be written, with eager excitement Lacks and lacks of excited anxious eager rebelious audiences are waiting Till dawn on the beach of the park that turned into an ocean of crowd- 'When is the poet arriving?' 'When is the poet arriving?

You are leaving: the steamboat starts off undulating the river Amidst the clamour of engine From behind the cloud of smokes Beauty of your weary face gleams