Some years ago, I visited my grandmother and we went on a long walk to the far end of the village. During our time together, she told me so many stories of her salad-days; I cannot remember all now but one thing that has struck me since then was about how she left writing poetry. I have heard from her friends that my grandmother unlike other girls of her age when she was young, would spend a lot of time alone; meditating on life and sometimes imagining herself to be a bird. “She was always seen with a book and a pen, writing poetry in the fields.”, a friend of hers once told me. “In my early twenties, I was known as ‘the-poet-in-the-making’ in our village.”, my grandmother told me on our walk. “Most of my poems are melancholic for writing poetry had always been an escape for me. It was a friend whom I could turn to when I felt low. I also used to write poems that were beyond the personal. I loved speaking on behalf of the sad people to let know that they were not alone. I wro...
Chase your dreams. Be kind.