The poems always come to me
or I feel so.
I usually turn away,
pretending to be busy.
It is as though they hide
at nooks and corners
waiting to turn up
as soon as I come.
The longer I turn away,
the more they arrive
one after the other
in torn clothes
like mendicants,
like babies on the doorstep,
like penniless relatives
with stories so desolate.
I’d need a heart of stone
not to listen.
I therefore,
bleed my pen for them.