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Dying in the woods





























The glazing green leaves,
were glistening with pearl-like dew drops,
fresh from the abode,
on the apple tree.

The ripest fruits, found in town were found there,
They were the choicest children,
little, red, fresh and sweet.
And many other trees,
of the great woods were jealous of her beauty.

As she was rooted in the marshy woods,
sun kissed and moist as always,
she never feared of the coming days,
and she happily gifted away her children,
to make the people around her happy.
She relished in the beauty of the woods,
and nothing in the world could dim her smile away.

She shared herself with the chirpy sparrows,
and the tawny owl nested on her branches,
and many a time the colourful butterflies,
would fly to her and tickle her with love,
she loved to shade even the little yellow flowers,
which flourished with joy near her foot,
And the dark cloud in the blue sky,
would often shed his tears of joy,
Love-lorn and on seeing her thriving magnificently,
in the deep woods, every cloudy night!

But one day while it just felt like a life,
that would stay as blossoming as ever,
Beings that were often called humane,
crept into the hideous woods,
in desperate search for a healthy bark,
armed with mutinous sharp blades,
that could slice up the strongest tree with a jab.

As the unfaithful creatures neared her shade,
fear conquered her for the first time ever,
she silently whispered to the birds to fly away from her,
she warned the yellow flowers to hide in the grass,
beneath her foot.

As she stood there unmoving,
thinking of her happy days,
and of the dark cloud which shed his love for her,
She wanted to weep drearily,
And to shout aloud, to call for help,
She wanted to fly away like the birds,
and save her life somehow,
she felt like calling out to the cloud,
to come down and save her life,
but the cloud could never hear her,
she was a lonely tree now.


She shrinked her leaves and ripe fruits,
towards her, and prepared herself,
ready to face her silent end,
like a martyr reflecting courage,
and the strength of his country,
while dying in the battle field.

As she felt the wrenching pain,
on her huge bark,
happy memories clouded her thoughts,
As the sound of the jab on her trunk,
grew louder, she was gradually,
extinguished of all her strength,
and the vision of the shiny white stars,
embedded on the velvetty sky,
was her last fleeting sight.

She fell down to the ground with a huge thud,
and was dragged away to the town,
and wasn't seen in the woods forever.




Comments

  1. It's a very sad end to a magnificent life :-(. A grand tree, which spreads its shoulders to birds which come, chirp around and live, is a boon ...And to see it go, is really sad....

    I wish, humans stop seeing everything as a resource to be used, experience life in all, and give as much as they can, for a wonderful planet....

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Very true sir :) Thank you for reading :)

      Delete

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The stars that connect the sky,  the tides that weave the sea, the pebbles that merge the shore, the trees that mesh the forest, the branches that link the trees,  the leaves that entwine the branches, the sun that lights the horizon, the sky that paints the water, the waters that survives the fish, the fish that eats the seaweeds, the seaweeds that carpets the rocks, the rocks that protects the soil, the soil that strengthens the roots, the roots that keeps alive the trees,  the trees that mesh the forest, the forest that survives the big bears, leopards, and birds, the birds that live on the worms, the worms that protect the soil, the soil that gives birth to crops, the crops that survive the we, the we that eat everything in this big, wild world, the world in us is the world outside, the outside that reflects the inside, the inside that is abstract, the abstract is opaque, yet translucent, the translucence of the sun rays in a muddled dew drop at daw…

To write is to dwell

FEBRUARY 15th, 2012





















What writing means to me...

As lonely as a cloud, as boring as boredom itself, I was. I grew up as a typical child at school but a very hefty one, I am still the same. I managed to cheer people with my innocence but did not manage to make happy friends to last a lifetime because of my gross physique. I couldn't play as I had no playmates at home and my only hobby was to sit and watch tv.

When I was studying in kindergarten, I used to visit a nearby shop with my dad. My dad was busy shopping for groceries and I engaged myself in observing things around me. The people who had mixed emotions that outshone on their faces, an old man cycling with a lot of strain, probably getting back home, the lady vendor with her dirty saree pinned up to her waist and squatting on the floor, selling vegetables, the autowala bargaining with his potential customer, the green trees which arched high with its countless leaves, the flowers that smile at me on the road side, happy child…

I'm too shallow to write a verse

I'm too shallow to write a verse To wrap around the twists and turns To dwell unto my own, I do Living somebody else's life or my own? Shrouded under piles of thought, I scribble, thinking only of the applause.
I'm too shallow to write a verse or two To make ends meet, I'm too cuckoo. I'm not the classic, scratching blue wooing 'em, tearing 'em apart  with every word.
I'm not the one who rhymes nor the one with notes for those lyrics. I'm the one who scribbles blotching blue on all my troubles, roiling over moments back and forth, trying to string those stray words, into at least a doggerel. See, I don't make sense.  I told you, I'm too shallow to pen that sonnet, that ballad, that haiku, that refrain, that ode.
I'm forcing it out all that gibberish snowballed  unto mine, to chime and rhyme  but nevertheless I realise in time, I'm to shallow to be read over cheese and wine.