Free-verse has a translucent quality~

freedom creates its own vision~

it reveals as it conceals:

Expression here finds a metaphor,

but often the metaphor discovers

its expression anew.

Inevitability defines its

solemn tonality

and its forbidden metre is

its absolute fatality.

The primal feelings provoke

the flowing eidos

and the word reasseverates

a new etymological nuance

with every random utterance.

The Deity discoveres the language afresh,

cautiously, with every insipid error.

All poetry (good, bad, even, odd, neutral—)

and all the colourless colourful spectrum

of variations, are primal eruptions

from the ageless memory of the pure race,

from the infinite otiose meandering sounds.

The Word is first a Sound

before it discovers a meaning and

poetry too is an insane web of sounds

embedded in a primeval luminous Silence.

Silence is everybody’s eternal poem~

also, a sure measure

of every poet’s personal treasure.

Why then poetry, ah! poetry?