A drop of ink once thought:
I won’t stain this sheet of paper.
A poem died before it was born,
And the poet became a grain of sand,
And the world became a desert.
A drop of ink once thought:
I shall spread myself on this sheet of paper
It did not become stains on paper
but filled the sky with stars.
The world became a lake;
The lake was like a garden,
With stars sprouting as flowers.
*A poem written by our beloved Narendranath sir in reply to my email imploring me to get married. (I publish this in my blog with out seeking his permission)
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