My Vocabulary is limited,
My symbols are few,
My themes are old and rigid,
Only the permutations are new.
The sea of miseries, the violent tides –
The islands and the fish
The seasons of the torrential spring –
And that unfulfilled wish.
The broken hearts, the thwarted loves –
The sacrifices and the victim.
Only tears to offer in the garb of Love –
About twinkles my sonnets are mum.
This conjuring of images,
This magic of lies,
These pretensions of suffering,
These moth-eaten cries
This self-referential framework,
This indulgence in craft
Aren’t these downright disgusting –
Do I need this Anguished Art?
So today once more, For the Last Time,
I’ll pour the venom of my heart.
And get rid of these symbols and themes –
Which have become my cancerous part.
But each time I cut a chunk of my heart,
Hoping to be light and gay
Each new sonnet drags me in its viscous net
And I’ve more and more to say!