We are like the stray line of a poem which always feels that it rhymes with another line, and must find it or miss its own fulfilment.
A spiral is his heart,
He goes down step by step,
Plunging into abysses to bring up
The really new,
Not clever empty rearrangements
Of the old parrot-ideas.
I know what he means
When he says it is
We who keep the sun going,
And I believe what he means is true.
He is a giant, yes,
And his work;
The accumulation of inexact expressions,
Not the discovery of the precise
Inevitable words. After all,
All words are just words invented.
Restraint is nonsense…
As many shams and shibboleths
As he destroys.
Logic achieves monsters,
Fantastic structures grow
Ascend, throng the universe
And disappear into the intense inane.
~Anuradha Bhattacharyya ( Fifty Five Poems )