Old Wine

In the rush of new, old ones go dead Ink dried up, their colors fade, Poet, pause a while from the race of rhymes To dig out the ones buried in olden times. They’re precious pearls, each some moments’ capsule Fires of bygone era that cindered cool Your tears, joys, broken pieces of your mind Made with alphabets, with your spirit refined! Though pined for life your poem’s each word Once delivered, you consigned to graveyard A day’s applause that staled into night No sooner than born, shoved out of sight. Poet, the old ones, beneath dust they moan, Dig them out, they are your own, Take a break, from the gushing ones’ race, Dip your heart, in the old wine’s grace.