Beating of the pulse
With the supply of air,
Life air.
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Swami Vivekananda never wanted to be a poet
Saints are singers,The singers of the Divine,Telling of sanyasa, leaving of homes,Becoming of saints,Cutting the bonds of maya-moha,Taking to renunciationThat is vairagya.But Swamiji is first of all an Advaita VedantistBelieving in Advaita Vedanta,A griha-tyagi, home-leaverHe is but a sanyasin,A saint, a renouncer,A vairagiAnd above all a philosopher saintOf IndiaLearned and poetical.
How to write it,
The history of sad mankindWith poor and miserable destiny?The annals of poor and distraught mankindDevastated and distressed mankind?
Take you alcohol,
Be you not an alcoholic,Addicted to,Lying fallen on the roads.Spoil you not with alcoholismThough take youBut within a limit.
Listening to the African music
A singer of heart,Heart from Africa,Africa the Black Continent,Chinua,Chinua AchebeThe singer,SingerHearing the vibes,VibesAnd transmitting,The heartbeat,HeartthrobOf Africa.A singer of heart,Heart from Africa,The black Continent,Hearing the music,Music of life,Song and danceOral and ethnic,Breaking the iceOf multi-cultiTo record and codifyTo be an African,African singer of heart,Heart,Chinua,Chinua Achebe.
My father used to say, my son, you always keep a low profile,
You write,Never be proud of your poetic talent,Your properties,Who has not got poetic talent?
The red kite flying,
Circling and circling over,How beautiful is itTo see the bird of preyHovering around,Encircling around!The red kiteSoaring on large wings,Unfolded,Scaling and soaring.