Can A Poet Die At All?

Who is there philosophizing
atop the hoary hill:
The earth is dying,
the sun is dying.

Aren’t these sheer lies?
Can a poet die at all?
Isn’t he the same
before and after the fall?

Why beat the self-same drum,
worn out by diurnal dum dum,
no more can it bear the strain,
constant tapping shall affect the brain.

The capsule that I bury this day,
the truthful record of an ill-fated play,
the climax and denouement of epic dimension
caused by a fatal flaw in psyche of man.

At the same spot I shall bury
the living and dying profile of the sun
the blue-print of a new civilization
yet to arise on ruins of the existing one.

© 2003 Madan G. Gandhi

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