Is it possible to have a real empathy,
so deep and intimate, that you may talk
without uttering a word?
Is there a way to emulate mindset,
to accommodate a foreign feeling,
to live through strange emotions?
Is one right to write about stranger's experiences
or one has to undergo the same spectrum of joy and sorrow
to compose their true and vivid story?
Is a writer eligible to speak for others?
Who endowed him with urgency to draw conclusions
on life and death?
Why does he reside in his own world, enclosed in mystery,
oblivious of daily struggle
and decides on matters unknown to him?
Can such a complexity of life be inferred
by his mercurial mind?