When the contours of imagination expand far and wide,
The hackneyed tools of available words become frail
And show a certain reserve to accommodate new ideas.
There arises, then, a need for forging and smithying of tools

That are flexible and pregnable like a womb…
To bring forth new profiles for public consumption.
It is not that there shall be a sudden influx of
Fresh vocabulary into the native tongue,
But, a favourable disposition to change
Breaking the ice if insular conservatism.
Like all objects of Nature, words, too, have their own cycles,
Enjoying summers occupying coveted seats of learning,
And fall, groping in the dust of rejection and neglect.
Some exceptional words, though, devoid of ego, will be alive
With their gift of camouflage co-existing with myth and folklore.
Over years, they absorb the essence of the culture they roll in
And assume a wide lattice of fine shades of meaning.
They may dress-up like an immaculate Victorian,
Or a frolicsome masquerader at a Spanish Carnival.
They may brag junk like a boor got sot in a nightclub,
Or, speak spice and pepper in the alcoves of academia.
Whether they prefer a quiet interment,
Or have a second coming to bless the world,
The womb of language is always fertile
To deliver a fair expression to every dream,
To every hue and notion – a suitable acronym