We are nothing but collections of stories;On the pages of life,
They keep being written
With the ink of time.
Collection?
No, I am wrong:
One story, certainly, for one person,
Just the color of the ink changes
Like do change the seasons
And the pages are sometimes
As transparent as sky;
Sometimes, as white as pigeon.
Some has the tapestry of,
Oh, your dear village,
Magnificent hills, peaceful cloud.
And on some, your universe would turn upside down-
Rousing the magnetic poles to flip:
South becomes North,
North becomes South.
Some pages are as red as blood
Pricked and stabbed by the pen itself;
Purple they become over time
And they remain,
The stains remain, I say,
Permeating the next hundredth page...
We are nothing but stories.
Yours one would flash in front of your eyes,
(The whole of it in a second,
Like a series of pictures,
Swiped quick with a flick of your finger)
Before the stupid asteroid hits your planet
In the next chapter.
Again some bloodshed,
Again some heart aches,
But the pigeon would always try to fly,
And when it does,
Sky would embrace it,
The sky and cloud.
So sip your tea, peacefully,
The ink hasn't run out.
(Picture Credit: Google Images)
