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What will you write,


when your hands droop
impotent
and your thoughts are paralyzed.

What will glimmer in this gleaming oblivion?

Compose yourself first.

Pick up your pen and
touch the cold paper again,
with your wrinkled fingertips —

For how long will you
revel in and rebel against
virtual delights?

One of these days,
you must sully your hands.


A poem by Utkarsh

fiction © Samiksha Jain
Non Fiction © Samiksha Jain
Poetry © Samiksha Jain