Monthly Archives: October 2009

When I sought to pluck the rose …

red-rose

It bloomed to be an exquisite rose: pulchritude streaming from its
ruby-red petals. And rubies were they, gleamed as they did in the
tepid sunlight. It was truly a divine sight, with sunshine filtering
through its dainty leaves and reflecting its rosy beauty to the
optima.

Ah! A sigh escaped my lips as I gazed at it – and who wouldn’t stare
at it? With its gullible show, mesmerizing beauty and breath-taking
fragility … who wouldn’t?

I bent and sniffed its fragrance: the nifty fragrance seeping through
my nostrils, frenzied my nasal senses and I leaned forward to pluck
it.

However, in midair, I checked myself.

Why yank the poor thing? How could even one think of tweaking
something so beautiful?

I trod a few steps back bashfully and set upon watching it again:
absorbing its beauty and, not curtailing it.

Because I understood beauty is to be preserved, and not impaired.

Unusual Ponderings

When we’re aware of the fact that death is inevitable, that it has to
come one day, that the cycle must end one day, then why should we fear
death?

If death is the beginning of another, eternal life, a life free of all
miseries and predicaments, then why should one mourn the death of a
beloved?

If people say that love is immortal and never-ending, that it survives
every hardship; that it is so perpetual that it grows even after
death, then why should the memory of my beloved grow fainter with
every year?

I STROLL ABOUT THE TERRACE …

I stroll about the terrace;
And sounds of my land immerse into my existence:
The soft drip of the lonesome trickle of dew,
As it embraces the thirsty earth;
The soulful chirrup of the swallow,
As it meditates on the benevolent neem;
The cadenced buzz of the honey bee,
As it prowls about for the nectar;
The gurgled hoot of the sleepy owl,
As it finally slips into slumber;
The whooshing flow of the morning breeze,
As it invigorates the mortals far and wide:
But then ruthlessly, in a flurry of time
The bliss of spring is cut off,
And … autumn on its throne of gold and red,
Arrives to proclaim its crown: the land that had bloomed
With the scintilla of flora and the jade of prairie,
Now lays barren of its vibrancy,
And squandered of its colors … and so it happens, that
Blood tinkles down the leaves galore;
The shades of neem no more benign, snigger in deceit;
The bee drones as it strikes to raze the mountain-homes;
The owl cowers in fear, alert and tense;
The wind lashes in fury, blood and flesh its feed:

Helpless and vulnerable, unable to do anything,
I still stroll about the terrace, contemplating
Does my land have a future?

Ephemerality …

1498191552_239b65279e

It was a grub: a monochrome shell of existence within which pulchritude bloomed secretly, set to burst free when the crescent acquired its complete shape.
A nature’s anomaly, the grub was. So ugly, and yet fostered beauty in its womb. So seemingly unimportant, and yet reared something that added to the loveliness of the world.
How unfortunate that it couldn’t survive more than a fortnight … and the fact that the moment when it would embrace death, at that very same moment, its embrasure to death would become the cause of sprouting of another life.
Then the butterfly would arise from the remains of its cocoon, the drab casing that had enclosed her while she nurtured her existence.
Such striking disparity would radiate between the two! The butterfly painted with the most scintillating colors and the cocoon an etiolated being, devoid of any color. The butterfly a symbol of exquisiteness, while the cocoon a symbol of drabness.
However, they would both hold something in common: this duo of opposites, the cocoon and the butterfly.
They both would be ephemeral, and therein this ephemerality would lie the true beauty, however the short-lived it be …

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Because, beauty, when short-lived, is appreciated the most.