In the spring as the cotton flowers
flew in the wind
In the hilly lands of poets and pine groves
I witnessed a heritage past

Paying homage to the aspirations
of adventurers of inkhearts
Embracing legacy now only words remain
yet they remind of the writer’s pain…

Words paint a picture of infinite colors
strike the chords of thoughts in so many ways…
mortals of dust forever remain alive
in the yellow torn page

the vicissitudes of pen names
show not mere words but memories hidden
stirred is the soul by aching heart
loud enough to break the silence of wrongs apart,
for stabbed by the swords of a mighty pen
empathy rises following the shadow of thoughts