In your ears do you hear the whisper?
Yes ! The same everyday of being the greatest writer?
Book launches, podcasts and interviews to name a few,
Sitting there itself the heavens giving you a clue.
A pseudonym that resonates the dream in you.
Beam, glow and relish the fame that will come,
Such an elegant short story that is wholesome.
Written by you getting accolades in the New Indian Express,
The paper carrying articles the world is trying to suppress.
And The television flashing visuals of your fame,
A line of people waiting to get copies signed in your name.
Your autograph exudes the dimensions of time,
A celebrity you are enjoying the sunshine.
Jump around with joy at the sight of your book,
Get love from people in every corner and nook.
Printed and a million copies sold and still going,
A smile that sticks to your lips, the cheers coming.
Your austere belongings simply look spectacular,
The purse you have contains credit cards that run forever.
Spraying confetti on you with balloons bursting,
The lamps lit on the pedestal to give you a blessing.
And then you feel the thud on the back,
Bringing you to life with a whack.
It is but your mother cursing you to do housework,
And you feel sheepish and laugh like a crook.
Give excuses and postpone your duty,
The appreciation you get is of sleeping beauty.
©Abeera Mirza
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