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.