By Rajnish Mishra

 

Work is worship. It earns returns.

Wives with a poet husband want

his work bring returns.

 

Time invested in poetic affairs does not reflect

upon account. Life’s short, wants unlimited,

each second must count.

 

“Don’t build your Nobel in the air”, she says,

motherly, practical and fair. Pardons poor husband’s

transgressions, and that day’s dreamy affair.

 

The poet, reveling in the glory, in return, forgets

to think of savings account or count his bank notes

before they are printed, had he invested his hours not in “air”

but on something that made money, a fair deal,

not a faint promise of lines in the account book of immortality,

long after his affairs they burn or bury his memory,

and his family has learnt to live without his airs.

If the dice roll right, his coin minted, the mighty poet

will rise from the dead, alive once more, more alive than before,

he will sit at his rightful throne. Only if!

 

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