સવારે
ફલાવર વાઝમાં
મલપતાં ફુલો જોઇને ઉત્સાહમાં
મેં
બારીના પડદા ખોલ્યો તો –
ડાળે કાંટાને વળગી એક પંતગિયું
ધ્રુસકે ધ્રુસકે રડતું હતું.

-પ્રીતમ લાખાણી
Translation:

In morning,

I saw smiling and grooming flowers in the vase,

and I opened the curtains of my window with happiness.

And then I saw a butterfly,

crying with grief, holding the abandoned thorned branch.

I appear at sunrise to circumscribe the day.
Not an irrelevant shadow as some might say.
My point is validation of the kingdom beneath the ray.
The prince in deed of Vacua Spectra a “vast stygian ocean”
as Archimedes my gnomon would say.
When at night on my coming forth by day,
I am released from this tool where I lay.
The gnomons watch is ponderous,
his disk I tooth when I am transformed.
My work is endless though not laborious,
and to my kingdom I have sworn, to keep time infinite,
whether in the heaven the stars adorn,
or upon your wrist where I am worn.

If you found that you were me
You’d be undoubtedly confused.
And You wouldn’t know how to row
Against the currents that you know.
You’d want to write a book
And pen a witty tome
Or maybe be a crook
And steal an island home.
But every time your eyes
Fall on the thing you prize
A whiff of something new
Lights another fire in you.
Does all this chaos worry you?
Or does the upheaval excite you?
Would you rather stand this storm?
Or have it be the norm?
Either way its fine
Cause it’s not you;
It’s me.

What is the similarity between Pablo Picasso, Lord Byron, and Dylan Thomas?

Of course, they all were grand creators in their own relevant fields, but they also had something else in common. They all had an immeasurably vigorous sexual life. In addition, researchers say that was not a mere co-incidence.

I think, it was not something that they were proud of though. It was a stipulation of closure that they required, to be able to feel. It also meant they were courageous enough to start all over again, every time they went through a bad experience. It made them more mature with every wound.

Khalil Gibran has said , in his letter to his long distance soul mate that he never met in his lifespan, the one who was an artist her self named May Jidah, that to be an artist it meant not to be a content human psych. He believed that being satisfied with something or someone meant that one is limited to certain boundaries. Thus, an artist knows no boundaries, no limits that his psych cannot overcome, to find an infinite land to the fore. The infinite time dimension that is inevitably underestimated by many, but has known to be quite the most affecting factor in human life, within which the distance is crossed from a cradle to a grave.

Thus, in conclusion, it meant that all artists are unsatisfied always, burning in the fires of their own dimensions of hell, choused by themselves. Like she has choused for herself when she had enough urge to write the below verses.

I know,
The reason for your smile,
Is cavernous within my pain.
However, let me tell you,
A fact, you do not know;
The reason of my ache,
Is veiled by your vindictive smile.

I walk to the tall bridge,
above the placid water,
the cars flowing past me like the water below,
i stand on the hard steel bridge,
and let my body gravitate downward,
its a long drop,
the feirce wind splashes my hair behind me,
my eyes glaze over with memories,
the stars following me as I go under,
the night sky glares upon me,
split seconds pass as I hit the stiff water,
that the pain travels to my nerves,
i dont hold my breath as I slowly drift farther and farthrer down into the dark abyss,
my eyes see the bright moon still shining through the surface waves,
blood pours from my body as the water pressure forces itself on me,
my vision begins to blur as the moon is no longer visible,
just the grim darkness,
darkness is my friend,
swallowing my body as a whole,
Goodbye.