When feelings run dry,
You live in a landscape barren
Where nothing grows or sprouts.
In the mad din of things material,
You just barely merely exist,
Trying to salvage your soul
That has run out of its food.
Left in this spiritual wasteland
Is a strange benumbing discontent,
A restlessness that sears your being,
Nibbling at its core, an unyielding rat!
When will the vital river come alive
To rejuvenate our core and make it thrive?
When will the song bird come back, O, when?
Arun Bhagat
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Site Title Poetry of the Soul 