I wish I had seven fingers .
Five that counted my words , my papers and my pens ,
One extra which counted the dreams my nights contained ,
Another which counted the losses.
Because these five fingers
Never have counted all that
which slipped from this palm of mine ,
And the count gradually
Exceeded the count .
Einstein said "all that can be counted
Should not be counted. "
But this had to be counted
And I couldn't count .
Futile attempts choked me down .
I should count ,
Lest what shall I pass on as my legacy ?
For I own a lot less than what I lost .
But seven is just a paradox .
Of fantasized and preserved monuments named as wonders
And of blended hues of earth which were sucked up by the sky ,
seldom do I sew the embroidery of merriment in downpours .
Mostly it's melancholy
Which keeps ebullience buoyant ,
Of thirst , dried up saliva ,
Eroded lands and cracked heels ,
Of separation of two lovers .
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