On birthday of a poetess

A life is built, and destroyed Infinitesimally each day,
Cell by cell, breath by breath, heartbeat by heartbeat,
A sum total of experiences,
with one experience silting over the other:
layer by layer, of joy, of pain, of loss, of assimilation;
in a wave, with crescendo of exaltation and the steep falls of desperation;
moment by moment,
With each moment worth the whole life,
and whole life wrapped in a moment.
Then why celebrate birthday! Only once a year?
Isn't every second giving birth to a new you,
and burying your old self!

As poetess,
you are a flow,
with no beginning, or end,
You are a continuum
from first poet who sang long before sun was lit,
to the one who will outlast this earth itself
and will recite alone in unbroken silence of the universe,
With your words
you transcend the time and space
And kiss the foreheads of poets of past and future
And touch, with distance itself, the hearts of other distant poets of your time
Who are in love with you
And who you love too,
Poets never take birth or die
but only change form,
And thus have no birthdays
or funerals.

-Pulastya