His eyes drenched in the sea of pain,
Got the oar of hyperboles to float,
Over the letter and words of his boat.
They called him a sailor,
But no,
He's a writer who knows,
How to sail the barque,
Over his own saltwater.


His hands waved the pen,
Spilling the ink of his illusions,
On the emblazoned paper of imageries.
They called him a magician,
But no,
He's a writer who knows,
How to calligraph the art and beauty.


His thoughts blew the wind of change,
Inhaling all the shades of sob and melancholy,
Into the lungs of his metaphors,
Exhaling the reformed wind,
To wipe the tears of silent cries,
To spread the spellbinding smiles.
They called him a breeze,
But no,
He's a writer who knows,
How to clear the dubiety in mind,
With the vehemence by his poems.

Aarchi Advani.!