The clock struck twelve,
the midnight started swinging.
Volcanic developments going in the mind,
for the erupting magma of art and creativity.
Pages of literature and fiction,
turning the history of hope,
in sweat drenched hands.
The dictionary turning and tuning
the fate of words.
The old owl of plagiarism,
sitting on the nearest branch,
visible from my window screen,
sitting with withered wings,
wearing the spectacles of treachery.
Rhyming synonyms put into the balance,
greatest short stories and ideals turned,
to whip the horse of spontaneity,
to drive the cart of imprinted emotions.
The operation in full swing,
The programme of “My Computer” changing.
Aberration of a saintly figure in saffron robe,
A voice reverberating the historic “Chicago Address”,
revealing the secret of work in these words –
“Helping a man spiritually is the greatest possible help”.
My mind gradually building
the stalactites and stalagmites of wisdom.
The aberration slowly vanishing,
serving as radar,
guiding my pirate ship of thoughts,
to surrender in the dock of honesty.
Tears of repentance rolling down my cheeks.
My arrow of a single glimpse of truth.
The old owl of plagiarism flying away and away,
flapping its wings.
Satiated feeling my triumph,
I went to sleep,
when the clock struck one