thoughts

Amma always said the best poems lived in silence before finding words. I discovered this truth sitting by the Kaveri, watching pilgrims circle Srirangam's ancient temple. An elderly Tamil poet sat beside me, reciting verses his grandmother had whispered decades ago. His weathered hands trembled with memory. He spoke of how communities preserve what matters most—not through applause or recognition, but through quiet devotion. His words weren't meant for social reward; they were offerings to something timeless. That afternoon transformed my understanding. Real poetry, he taught me, blooms when we honor what came before us, sharing our heritage not for praise, but for love.