Of a Minister

There are times I get weary of talking;
Words, sounds and echoes whirl within.
At such times I wish I were a minister:
The best way to relieve the heavy winding entrails.
The minister has so much to say,
He never suffers from pent-up words.

There are times when I find all roads blocked,
The threatening Ker-bows aimed from all sides.
At such times I wish I were a minister.
The ministers know and show a thousand roads.
They live on crossroads at a million junctures.

The day comes with the colour of monsoon winds
And gets lost on the sandbanks of the dried riverbed.
We sit sad and quiet and look outside,
And think, if I were a minister.

The minister has neither inside, nor outside,
No air, no fertile soil on the sandbank.
There are only words, call of a hundred open roads,
Pulling at the sleeves day and night.

OF A MINISTER