Saturday, November 03, 2012


That day the mountain
gave away and he fell
into the waiting arms
of gravity.
Landing with a gentle thud
into the pit of a ravine.
He lay there,
surrounded by others
just like him,
covered with moss
and brooding wild flowers.
He lay there,
still and quiet,
through summers and
winters and storms.
Till you came along.
What was it about him?
Perhaps he was more
striking than the others.
Perhaps, as you slowly
brushed off the moss,
you saw something in him
that no one else could.
And so you brought him
back with you.
A round grey rock
with a few chips, chinks
and dents.
Cradled like a child
in the crook of your
hard working, sinewy arm.
And now I wonder what
made you see what you saw.
And what makes you do
what you do.
Is it the hopelessness
oozing out of the wounds
of a world scarred by men.
Or is it the hope
burning bright in your
relentless heart that
things might yet change.
What is it that makes you
wake up each new morning
and adorn him, now sitting
silently under the neem tree,
with a dot of vermilion,
a shower of flowers and
a drizzle of faith.

1 comment:

virinder sabharwal said...

may be it was a letter,
engraved on the tiny piece of earth,
unreadably faint but still shining in his eyes,
that he picked it up,
to only give his faith a symbol,
that the retrieving hope,
was as solid and eternal,
as the little piece of earth.