Notes on a poet.

The most modest of homes for a giant of man.

I sat on a chair waiting for him.

I see his household, where time stood still.

A cup of hot coffee, as I glance at my boss. Wondering whats in store.

A small temple, agarbattis and potraits, a sign of his devotion.

Saraswati is in the air.

We're called into his room.

Sitting up on his bed, he smiles. I notice his feet, they must've walked many a mile.

His voice grainy but solid. His eyes all knowing. I know he is frail and ailing. I also know he is very strong.

What does a young man know about what time tells. He must surely think looking at me. I look down in reverence.

Conversations ensue, as I sit mutely. Watching a poet at work, my first oppurtunity.

A ball point pen and note pad. Enough for him to turn them to gold. He's written some and wants to recite.

I hear, but dont understand much. My boss thinks it over. Its probably divine.

Conversations flit past the song and into experiences and verses. I listen. Not knowing much. But enough to know its a moment in time.
Several such meetings, not one word spoken. Just mute observations of a man at work.

I understand his legacy and his work. I respect it to be mute in his presence. There is nothing I can add or discuss with a such a giant.

All I can do is keep an eager ear and listen to verses I am lucky to hear.

I wonder why he lives, such a simple life. I am told of his past and nod with awe.

What is his due, the world simply cannot pay. What is his worth, other poets must write.
I know this much. While I may not have grown up with him, I did grow when I was with him.

Legends dont die. Such men must only be celebrated. For he has served his creator well. For he has made us richer, more than we'll ever know.

Long Live, The Poet.