In the belly of an art
Mixing great stuffs in sounds or sight
Poems are but a pool of blood
That flows from umbilical cord.
In labour room with midwives
Pushing out an entire new life
Poetry is a mother’s vein
A melting pot with so much brain
Shedding for the lo and hi
Whispering please stop, with a sigh
While the Poet is a mother,
Carrying all; relentlessly.