He seems to be a poet, His deathless mind endlessly flaps, The unimpeded soar of a hawk, The flow of the nomadic stream. He is the aerial gyre, With wings of creation, The whole world,he conceives. Musing for a bona-fide cause, He scribes his heart, Like the fall of summer dowpour. He inks vermillion On the otherwise widowed sheets. Drenched in fervour, He evaporates into verses, He casts his immortal spell. On the morsels of words He feeds on. And poetry springs on him. Oh! He is a poet indeed...!!!