By Moola Veereswara Rao
I know your wounds... but quit ye not the noble route. Remember how a silent reed became a flute. Don't kick them out, because they're all just lifeless stones. But how became a rock into a sculpture...moot. Ye don't concede to whetted darts of mean critique. Ye watch this road that greets both hurled down stone and fruit. Why fear invisible banshees of moonless night. Bestir those nights when silky dreams did convolute. Don't keep demurring that the life became so trite. Ye think awhile how seed into a tree does transmute. Don't try to prob the drifts of life and feel downbeat. Behold, by early bright how blossom roses cute.