May I discard the outer cover of time from the layers of poetry by immersing the poet in its entirety within me

May I exchange T.S. Eliot’s The Wasteland with the future of this earth like a lunatic’s dreams and make one season of poetry farming by tilling with the pen of desire.

But I want to write poetry of an age dancing in the tunes of ruptures that is full of life.

Poetry that emerges from a poet’s mind becomes complete only when it enters into the reader’s sphere of comprehension.

A reader takes poetry deep within him or her by accommodating it within his/her range of consciousness.

Poetry emerging from a poet enters into the reader only when it comes within the readers’ 'sphere of intellect. A reader cannot take poetry by expanding it beyond his/her consciousness, rather can take by shrinking it within. Thus, there exists a chance of every poem getting changed while reaching every reader. This ‘getting changed’ is a form of ‘getting translated’, in a way. So, every assimilation of any poem is a translation.

Poetry emerging from a poet enters into the reader only when it comes within the readers’ 'sphere of intellect.

How could it be wished that poetry of a mellow age be born when this time is taking showers in the drama of a loathsome taste!

I'm bereft of poetry on this planet, from where the beauties of Creation are vanishing away furiously.