Poem By Bindu Borle
An upturned page waiting tirelessly
In the still ness of things.
I sit thinking, trying hard to begin
But the thoughts are locked.
Clenching my fists I curse myself, but nothing works.
I feel so nervous
I wait for the ideas to flow like an surging river.
Matching the rhythm of the wind
Closing my eyes I pray to the muse,
I return back and just look from the window
The page doesn’t wait any longer
The impressions are already there
A divine intervention.
The prelude began.
Copyright © 2006, Bindu Borle