“ What type of poem am I?”
I am formless as the clouds,
and as elegiac as the silence,
in the itinerary of the noise.

I am not a classic
written by the author, “God.”
The rhythms of my verses are supplied
by the parable of their tears.

I am not in me
though I abide in me.
I am but a color,
whose colors have worn away.

May be I was written with
an ethical effect of the modern art.
Or may be I was not written
but just replicated from their life.

I wish I could read the critics mind.
Is it true that a poem cannot read anybody?
But I loathe the way they recite me
pretending to understand me.

My be I am,
the monologue of my rhymes.
Or may be I am,
the literature of my own life.

However much they hate me,
I am that poetry they cannot write.
I am the phantom of the world
crawling with a rose in the hand
through the boulevard of the thorns.

However much they praise me,
I am only a drop of verse
drawn up by the time
to become the formless clouds
in the wilderness of the literary sky.

O Poet! O my maker!
“What type of poem am I?”
O strangers! O my readers!
”What type of poem am I?”

I wish I could read me
and discern my spirit.
Is it true that a poem
cannot read a poem?

“ Am I a poem?”
or am I just a rhymed hoax.
Out of greed for the
joys of the immortality.

This cyclic curiosity goes on eternally.
I am lost in a synthesis between
the dualism of my readers
and the monism of my maker.

No one knows what its like to be a poem.
No one knows how vague is its core.
There is nothing as genuine as me.
There is nothing as deceptive as me.

Copyright 2005 Bhuwan Thapaliya.