In a shackled but harmonic world,
Flowed
wherever she might wish to lead
The
wanderer, the bondless, wasn’t committed to the bounds of the country
the old
woman’s prayers didn’t perturb her a bit
the
sweat marks in the hot desert didn’t concern her a penny’s worth
She
knew not what it was like,
to get trapped in a child’s fist
She
hadn’t guessed how deeply,
the tree loved the leaves she blew away
She
hadn’t sensed the adherence for the bank ,
the
river contained in its fluid heart
she
knew not what brought the birds back to their nest,
and that
the limitless sky could offer only limited shelter
She
never gave a thought,
Before
eroding the upper soil off the grounded entity
She
laughed like a madcap at the rootless shrubs
being
tossed up and down by her floating vigor
though
not sadistic she was at all,
for she
was too naive to grasp what pain felt like
all she
had gauged from whatever she had touched
was
sheer joy, an ardent desire to flow
and to
travel the lands, to traverse the terrains
to
touch the vulnerable and free them from the worthless fetters
This was
before she met a saint,
a
solitary tree in an old garden,
blossoming
with all hues and fragrances
as if
all bounties put together for the monarch
of a
petite beautiful kingdom
he was too
content with all that he had,
every
leaf, every bud of him,
too
fond of the tranquility within
he
lived to fullest, both autumn and spring
devoid
of all desires and ambitions, yes he was a saint
too
grounded to travel or to even dream of it
his
world, the old garden; just next to heaven to him,
This
was before the two ends met,
Now the
wind that flowed with the heartless valor
Happened
to cross the detached paradise
the tree that meditated in utmost serenity
had its
every atom dancing,
enjoying
the unworldly commotion set in place
and the
aimless wind for the first time
didn’t
pass so swiftly through the leaves
It got
stuck and became the very breath of the old saint
The
flowers got to know of the places that blossomed too
And the
wind learnt what it was like
to
dance on the loosely hung branches
the
tree was filled with a desire to flow,
a drive
to travel and a dream to fly,
and the
wind wished the tree could hold her close
clasping
her in his branches,
and she
prayed she could stay there at least for a season,
with
her soul captured in the entrancing landscape,
no one
save the wind and the tree
knows
how long the dreams sustained….
This is what had happened ages ago,
Now the
garden has withered and the tree has died
‘The
saint’-says the tombstone,
the
wind still rushes through the leaves,
and
blows away the upper soil
but
yes, sometimes she does stay and whisper to the saint’s grave,
the old
dreams are buried deep as all mortals are,
and the
wind, abiding by her nature
again
sets out on her usual routine,
her so-called
eternal journey,
but with
hues and fragrances
that still
remain of an old season--
The season,
when the tree wasn’t too saintly
and the
old beautiful garden,
once an
unruffled sovereign kingdom,
in a
shackled but harmonic world,
a beautiful bedlam of dreams.
