A poet is a child who
on seeing a blank page
must fill it with dreams

hears the song of the nightingale
in the din of passing traffic

comforts the lonely mother recalling
the pain of a thousand births

sees in each passing cloud
the tears of a generation

feels the heat of the sun
amidst the winter’s blizzard

carries the bones of young men
from the fields on which they fell

cries with the child
hobbling on war shattered legs

curses the generals whose souls
have been cast off before battle

cannot forget, trading
nightmares for dreams.