Pearls and oysters
scooped off the sea of words
Few early rays of sunrise
kept aside for moonless nights
Flowers, fragrances
enroute the mundane nine-to-five
plucked off their stems
in a special pouch of memory
lined with rhymes
Experiences, bad or good,
turned over the flame of perception,
grilled, medium to rare,
palatable to taste
Not one butterfly
Not a single bird
escapes the nets
No sound of footsteps
or a whisper goes unheard
Gathering verses
hunting for poems,
catch a piece of life
in the literature's harness
Poets, the only relic
of hunters-gatherers
still at work
Industries, revolutions
comforts, conveniences
have passed them by
brooding in their caves
When they could just as well
Nine to five
sitting by a table,
a few taps at keys,
a few things to babble
and have their claim
to survival
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