On trees, birds and lofty things

How wonderful it is, to glow under a February sun! To let your leaves, yellow and green turn a shade of gold. To stand still and let your bare branches frame a sky – serene and blue. To shelter birds of different tunes, to exist and merely be. And in that, to find purpose. How glorious it is, to be a tree!

How liberating it is, to soar over that tree! To fly to places where your wings can take you. To feel the wind under your feathers. To see the essence of life beneath you – the incessant movement. To perch on the windows of homes put together with love and care. To go back to that golden tree. Always. How delightful it is, to be a bird!

How humbling it is, to be a part of that incessant movement! To be able to stay a while and watch the sun set. To own your life and revel in your being. To watch life pass by all around and to know that all hearts beat the same. To find a reason to smile and to be at peace. How marvelous it is, to be alive!

How magnificent it is to light up the world! To rise and set for no reason at all. To paint the sky and to give life. To be worshiped and to inspire. But how limiting it is to be that indifferent sun. To exist without being aware. To bear witness to the drama of life, but to not know.

How fitting it is that what I tell myself is the meaning of my life! My purpose, my freedom, my home, my peace and my being – all stories I have told myself.

Conformity

Today,
I saw a million opinions
go up in the air
and melt into clouds.
By evening, I was drenched –
in someone else’s thoughts.

By night,
when the judgments
and rain
had finally stopped;
I looked for myself
in puddles
that lay on the ground.

I saw a person,
shaped
by what other’s think;
Empty and dull;
One with the crowd.
Me? – I was washed away.

Auguries of existence

Dark fumes in the air,
Engulfing morning’s souvenirs:
The doze of freshness,
The promises of innocence.

Putrid burnt wood,
Filling every corner and nook;
Banishing thoughts bright,
With skeletons of dread and spite.

A piece of paper, charred:
Burnt out stories of eggs and ham,
cindered letters of love, perhaps;
flirting skies it otherwise couldn’t have.

Earnest flames of burning hues,
Devouring life and death, and all within:
The concocted niceties and blunt miseries,
Broken corpses and sentiments therein.

A glorious destruction! The circle of life!
From ashes to tender twigs,
From the singularity to the world as is.
In death, the omen of life,
In destruction, auguries of existence.