I am that perennial cursed self of 'Vishwakarma' who has not seen the 'Vishnu Pratima' he has sculpted. He might have but has he had that 'Inner Vision' (antardrishti) to see the darkness of light know the depth of Eternity. These profound questions beg no answers. There lies the hallowed mystique of these celestial metaphors.

I am that blessed Self of 'Indradyumna' to proclaim with the courage of humility that this temple of poems is not mine.

Poetry loses its poetic echo when the lap of the mother nudity of the nude oozing blood of the wound angst of the anguish innocence of the child trembling lips of the beloved the fragrance of the flower the murmur of the bee dew drops on the grass in an Autumn morning et al are defined in words. Should they be treated in such prosaic way? Can any Poet as such excepting The Great Poet theorize such Poetic concepts of sensibilities?  

Where do I stand and what is my identity? I do not know. This is not