A poem should be soundless as the flight of birds...A poem should be equal to not true....A poem should not mean but be.

The vessel

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The potter moved his wheel
Round and round
His hands curving the raw mud
Out came a vessel, proud, lofty and handsome
Finding the vessel empty and incomplete
The potter filled it with water
Water lashing on all its surface
In each of the bend and curve
Their union so pure so beautiful
Made for each other you can say
Then the proud vessel for grantedly said
“Without me you have no value, no shape
Your existance is defined by me
You are mine, I own you, you are mine.”
The water smiled with acceptance
For her it was his love that spoke not his pride
So deep in was she with her beloved vessel
One day the wind blew with all its might
Along it came a small pebble
That hit the vessel
which was of course,made of mud not of metal
Out gushed the water, she flowed away
The bruished vessel stood there empty
Bewildered and helpless
Just a moment, just a small pebble
Proved him so weak and empty without her
The value of her now made him wonder
Was it the pebble or was it his pride ?
Or was it just a fate a calamity?
Confused he seemed, unrepairable he stood
She flowed alone unprotected
Scared was she to face the world
She had no shape she had no beloved
But she beautifully blended with mother earth
Nourishing the field, universalizing her existance
Rather than idly lying in her beloved vessel
Her true value her true utility she found
She did not turn back there was no way back
She accepted her freedom her destiny
Neither was it the pebble’s fault
Nor the wind that brought it
Neither was it her beloved’s fault
Nor was it her own
The two lovers parted its way it was the fate
The vessel stood alone and bruished
The potter spinned his wheel again
He took the raw mud in his hand
Round and round went his wheel
Round and round it went.


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Dinita Rai
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