My pen is not silent
To all the violent
Its ink is like lava in flow
From the volcano
Burning and boiling
Simmering and scorching
It depicts the man today in reality,
The hues of his nature in actuality
With his actions of barbarity,
Unaware of humanity.
But it stops in a sudden
For it feels sorry unhidden
All the writings all these years
Never wiped off all the tears
Have not taught him lessons,
Have not tutored him sermons,
But the tears at my heart
Let its ink flow on paper in my art
In letters of insight
To see him lettered in their right,
Not to allow the ills of weeds to grow
Not to let the evils of winds to blow
To sow the seeds of amity
To feed the plants of humanity
In the garden of humans
Away from the den of demons
To quench their thirst in insolence
With the blood of violence
For man to grow in human grace
To glow in the rays of his race.
