There lay a gigantic boulder sprawled in the middle of the street,
draped with an abraded finish of sparkling steel gray,
punctured at infinite spots of its body with a host of serration's,
left solitary on the road without traces of established identity.
A carpenter passing by thought of chiseling it to fine pieces,
with incessant strokes of his tapered hostile saw.
The gardener mused on embossing it with wild cactus,
entangling it with a plethora of thorny shrub and brilliant rose.
The sharp witted pilot envisaged its appearance with wings,
applauded himself for figuring out the supreme innovation.
The watchmaker felt like studding it with a jugglery of slender needle,
reinforcing its base with innocuous amounts of clockwork machinery.
The palmist had an impulse of engraving it with fine lines,
reading aloud chivalrously the waves of destiny hovering around its persona.
The chef of the hotel had a strong stare at it,
decided to lambaste it into dainty slices of fresh salad.
The archaeologist seemed to be reeling in waves of euphoric delight,
commenced to jot down notes regarding the very source of its existence.
The police on the street viewed it with gruesome disdain,
as it obliterated their visions of the flowing traffic.
Groups of lovers paid handsome tributes, assuming it to be an sacrificial altar,
inscribing their names with white sticks of chalk, red blood,
sketching their hearts with slanting arrows ripping through the core.
The writers pen filled sheets of virgin paper with innumerable lines,
portraying the glory of the inanimate object to all.
The most professional of them all was a hungrily starved beggar,
he didn't waste a minute pondering on the stone,
instead constructed his dwelling on the island of amalgamated rock,
slept all night in unperturbed tranquil,
within the rustic interiors of his rock stone house.
- 4 Views
Find a translation for this poem in other languages:
Select another language:
- - Select -
- 简体中文 (Chinese - Simplified)
- 繁體中文 (Chinese - Traditional)
- Español (Spanish)
- Esperanto (Esperanto)
- 日本語 (Japanese)
- Português (Portuguese)
- Deutsch (German)
- العربية (Arabic)
- Français (French)
- Русский (Russian)
- ಕನ್ನಡ (Kannada)
- 한국어 (Korean)
- עברית (Hebrew)
- Український (Ukrainian)
- اردو (Urdu)
- Magyar (Hungarian)
- मानक हिन्दी (Hindi)
- Indonesia (Indonesian)
- Italiano (Italian)
- தமிழ் (Tamil)
- Türkçe (Turkish)
- తెలుగు (Telugu)
- ภาษาไทย (Thai)
- Tiếng Việt (Vietnamese)
- Čeština (Czech)
- Polski (Polish)
- Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian)
- Românește (Romanian)
- Nederlands (Dutch)
- Ελληνικά (Greek)
- Latinum (Latin)
- Svenska (Swedish)
- Dansk (Danish)
- Suomi (Finnish)
- فارسی (Persian)
- ייִדיש (Yiddish)
- հայերեն (Armenian)
- Norsk (Norwegian)
- English (English)
Discuss this Nikhil Parekh poem with the community:
Use the citation below to add this poem to your bibliography:
"Truly Professional" Poetry.net. STANDS4 LLC, 2020. Web. 25 May 2020. <https://www.poetry.net/poem/51418/truly-professional>.