Unheard Poets

What is so special about us poets anyway...

When every breathing soul is a poem

Every beating heart holds an unheard tale?

That child playing in the rains whispered his story

To the paper boat he just pushed onto the puddle.

That old man sitting by the fire sighed his story out

To the winter winds that slipped in through the open window.

The fisherman tells his story to the flowing currents

The traveller tells his story to each passing milestone.

The thief buries his poem in the hole he has dug

The richman buries his in the tear stains of his pillow.

The farmer sings his tale to his green saplings

The labourer sings his tale to the heat of the sun.

The boy with untouched schoolbooks tells his story to his dog

The boy with no food tells it to the strays.

The man with no home sighs his poem out to the stars

The man with no name whispers it to himself.

So what is so special about us poets anyway?

We put words on paper, ink that dries out

While their poems...

They seep into the grounds, fly across the skies

The earth secretly embraces them all -

The first and final admirer of billion unsung poets.