Poetry is the sun that never sets,
A river of voices—no silence, no regrets.
It bends, not breaks, beneath the weight of years,
A lantern for the lost, a map for pioneers.
I walked with nothing, yet carried the sky,
No armor but the word, no shield but “why?”
And time declared me warrior—not by sword, but sight—
To cut through dark and welcome light.
Ask if I’ve conquered thrones or seas—
I’ll say: I hold no trophies, only keys.
The kind that turn in locks of dust and doubt,
That swing time’s silent hinges out.
Let the world call this a minor art—
Still it cracks the hardest heart.
No age can claim it, no grave can keep
What rises while the world’s asleep.
Poetry is root and bloom and seed,
A clock that ticks without the need to bleed.
And when they ask, “Who reads it now?”
Point to the wind—
and whisper, “Listen…
how?”
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Author:
Mottakeenur Rehman (
Offline) - Published: June 27th, 2025 05:31
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 20
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Poetic Licence, Damaso, Priya Tomar
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Comments5
Brilliant!! A most wonderful write a poem that sets in masterful lines the essence of poetry. With wonderful metaphor this poem displays poetry's glory in some exceptional lines. (I walked with nothing yet carried the sky) so much said in so little. The second to the last stanza is amazing and all is culminated in the last stanza. This deserves a much wider read. Without doubt a fave
Such a passionate love letter to poetry itself—its endurance, its quiet power, and its refusal to be diminished. It elevates the art from mere ornament to essential force: sunlight, river, lantern, key. There’s something deeply personal yet collective in the voice: speaking as one who’s walked through life empty-handed yet fully armed with language, as if poetry alone was enough to confront the dark. Lines like “no armor but the word, no shield but ‘why?’” land with striking honesty. The poet isn’t cloaked in grandeur, but in the relentless asking and seeking that poetry demands. That stanza in particular feels like a manifesto: a gentle defiance, a deep belief that sight (perception, understanding) is more powerful than conquest. And when the speaker claims to hold “only keys,” it’s a beautiful paradox: nothing flashy, just the means to unlock: imagination, insight, even time itself. The final image is especially haunting and affirming: poetry as the ghost wind that moves unseen but unmistakably, still whispering truth into the sleeping world. There’s reverence here, but also grit. Poetry isn’t being canonised, it is being lived. And you feel, reading it, that it really is evergreen.
This is an exceptional wonderful piece of writing, a pleasure to read
A gem, my friend, excellent. It's impossible to stop for a breath before reading on. Heroic, I really liked it! Thanks for sharing! Cheers!
Very beautiful !
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