A poem is a state of mind, not even ink,
Before the poet oversteps the soft edge of his stream
And, too late for himself, descends to think.
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Wonderful imaginary and imagery. Beautifully penned on autumn in a unique style. The last stanza is most impressive, it may be quoted here...
But he does not mourn himself, as the world mourns him:
He knows that when the seep of rising tributaries come,
He will die again.
Thanks for sharing this beautiful poem.
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Wonderful imaginary and imagery. Beautifully penned on autumn in a unique style. The last stanza is most impressive, it may be quoted here... But he does not mourn himself, as the world mourns him: He knows that when the seep of rising tributaries come, He will die again. Thanks for sharing this beautiful poem.
Thank you, sir, for your kind comments. :)