The Poet and the Poem

The Poet and the Poem

~Deepak Vohra 

A poem
is never just words.
It’s stitched from the dreams
a poet doesn’t dare say aloud,
a quiet sigh
that rises straight from the heart
and slips into the world—
soft, trembling,
like the unsure steps
of a civilization
feeling its way through the dark.

When a poet writes
water,
it doesn’t stay water.
It becomes a river—
flowing toward cracked earth,
lingering in tired eyes
as the last shimmer of hope.

When they write
human,
they’re not talking biology.
They’re igniting
a small, steady flame—
a warmth that glows
in the heart of a child
who hasn’t yet learned
what it means to be unequal,
to watch faith bought and sold,
to speak in the bitter tones of hate,
or play the cold game
of power and politics.

No—
a poet might not
save buildings,
bridges,
or monuments.

But if their words
can protect
the elegance of language,
the quiet art of kindness,
a wild, beautiful dream,
or the honest smile
of a child—

then maybe,
just maybe,
they’ve done something greater.

They’ve saved
an entire civilization—
without ever raising their voice.