Curtains drawn,
on windows closed,
painted on walls,
along prison doors;
Nailed shut,
from the outside though,
buried beneath,
the undergrowth;

Seven feet long,
and three feet wide,
two feet tall,
a prison to hide;
Six feet under,
a mound of dirt,
silent and warm,
as the day of his birth;

The poet sails,
beyond the waves,
across the tides,
no longer enslaved;
Free from the world,
free from his mind,
free from the chains,
free from his binds;

Chains that once,
tied him to the quill,
to that bottle of ink,
on the window sill;
Free at last,
to live his tales,
of love and lust,
the sailor sails;

A man no more,
the poet dead,
a poem now,
he waits to be read.

By: Viraj Belgaonkar