My Voice

I know

Not this birth, 

But it will take many more

For my voice

To get nearness

Of your voice. 

My voice talks with my inner soul, 

Reads the helplessness of the heart

And the sadness of situation;

It gives the broom of work

To cleanse the grime of bondage

Of time. 

I keep my foot

In the capital of words, 

I pluck the flowers of words

From the trees of words, 

Spread those on the road of work

By sometimes ushering

The poetry

And sometimes, the novel. 

Standing on the bosom of time, 

The novel delivers the speech

By sometimes

Praising the unseen presence

Of yours

And sometimes, 

The simplicity

And innocuousness of my voice.