Surrounded by fields of golden wheat,
With edge of the forest as it’s fence,
Stood a small town with narrow bricked streets,
Harbouring nothing but suspence.
Many who went there lived the same day,
Uncertain of their own eye’s account.
Strangely enough they all lost their way,
When they met her, a mathematician who couldn’t count.
Her charm was perfect like an old magic spell,
Which gained the trusts of travellers she came by.
Her smile was innocent and meant only well,
And eyes were deep, beautiful and shy.
She asked three questions…
“Where lies the destination you are so destined to be?
For the end is similar for all. Just be free.
Do you really chase your dreams or are you trying to flee?
Careful, this answer is the key.
Close your eyes to see who you are supposed to be?
And just like that, they all ended up alone before a lake by a tree.”
No one ever saw her or heard her voice again,
Yet they felt estrange and rejoice,
Who was that girl and where did she vanish?
Or maybe she was conscience seeking a clear choice.
Ageless, faceless, nameless protagonist,
Existing only in the “World of Words”.
A brief account of nature and character,
Which the writer never said but you heard.
A recollection of an event that sends,
Ripples even to days of now.
Effects, either good or bad, from those bends,
Navigates the author’s pen as it ploughs.
Trying to steer as per the story,
Whilst making choices of his own.
Decides protagonist’s fall or glory,
Authoring the story of his own.
I speak to you says your book,
You who is its writer and its lead.
Your steps is what your story took,
For everyone but the author to read.
After all we go through, after all we endure, after all the planning we do and after all the sacrifices me make, at the end of the day we are confronted by one question and one question alone.
For what? For what did I do all this? For what reason? For what purpose?
Trying to find an answer to this myself, here I am, looking to share my thoughts.
Synonymous with life, uncertainty hovers.
Unknown, unanswered and unpredictable at its core.
Yet we never stop with our endeavours,
For what? Dear dweller, I am unsure.
Despite a destination, common to all,
We choose different paths and songs of life.
Dwelling, which is innate in our nature,
Makes us wander and wonder how to thrive.
Why do we do all that which is being done?
Answering it would solve my mystery.
No matter who we are, we are supposed to run,
Summary of our entire history.
It has been quite a while since I wrote anything. Maybe it is because I have been busy lately or maybe there is a reason.
Yes, it sometimes doesn’t make much sense to do what we do in our day-to-day life but yet somehow it all comes together in the final picture. Maybe this is why there is always a reason behind anything anyone ever does.
Read to know…know to read
Not everything will make a perfect sense,
Perhaps something we should be thankful for.
This long journey encompassing all tense,
Never ceases to startle us like before.
And while we learn and adapt to our lives,
Declaring solidarity with a lady named luck.
A quaint fellow manages to thrive,
Appearing in the end to leave us awestruck.
Again, not everything will make perfect sense,
Perhaps that is what helped us all along.
Behind every uncertainty, possibility and suspense,
Lies a reason, incomprehensible and strong.
Women are mysterious they say. They are never fully understood by anyone which makes them special.
Yes, words are not to demean anyone but to highlight the beauty of the mystery women carry with themselves. A similar beautiful encounter is penned below.
She was a painter who saw it all.
Summer of Spain, two thousand and ten.
I see a painter sitting by the street,
Face so innocent, eyes so calm.
She makes painting of those who desire.
Each stroke has its own charm.
I see her eyes as hypnotic as they are,
Looking at children playing in the alley,
My table and her chair aren’t much far,
Her paintings aren’t anything less of a story.
Oh and there is a secret, she keeps to herself,
Known only to a few like myself,
What you see is unknown to her,
While her vision is the painting itself.