At times I compel myself to,
Look through a poet's lens
To see the world in a certain
Romantic sense.

To record on these pages,
The poppies at my door.
Sketch with words how the fire rages,
And the romping waves ashore.

The lanes of Bombay,
And the classic taxis that roam.
The cracks running down old architecture
Imprison in my verses that feeling of 'home'.

And that’s when it strikes me-
I needn't force myself to paint my view as such.
For my stripped iris alone,
Holds the same poetic touch.