I asked the bird to lend me wings. I longed to fly like her. Gracefully. She tilted her head and said, “Wings won’t be of any use to you because you don’t know the sky.” And she flew away. Into the sky. For a moment, I was offended. What arrogance! Does she think she owns the sky? As I watched the bird soar effortlessly into the blue vastness, I began to see what she meant. I wanted wings, not the flight. Like wanting freedom without the responsibility that comes with it. The bird had earned her wings. Through storms, through hunger, through braving the odds. She manoeuvred her way among the missiles that flew between invisible borders erected by us humans. She witnessed the macabre dance of death that brought down cities, laid waste a whole country. Wings are about more than flights. How often have you perched on the stump of a massive tree brought down by a falling warhead and wept looking at the debris of civilisations? The language of the sky is different from tha...
I wish there were roses blooming in my garden too... then may be I can pen some wonderful poetic lines like these. :)
ReplyDeleteTry growing roses; not very tough.
DeleteWe, the worm, the rose, are all going to dust one day, whether the Master wanted it or not.
ReplyDeleteDeep. This one.
Yes, dust is the ultimate reality. In the meantime the worms enjoy the real delights :)
DeleteProfound!
ReplyDeleteThanks.
DeleteDeath makes us same, what differentiates us is the life we live :) And is life worth living without acknowledging each moment?
ReplyDeleteThe lamb and the lion, the rose and the worm... Why did the master have to be so cruel?
DeleteProfound and beautiful :)
ReplyDeleteBeautiful words !
ReplyDelete☺
DeleteWonderful. Loved reading your poem
ReplyDeleteThanks. Glad you said it.
DeleteBeautiful poem.....liked how you brought Blake and Tagore together.....We are all made for the dust....but till we reach the end, a gentle touch would suffice....
ReplyDeleteA gentle touch, yes. The Buddha would nod in assent.
Delete