Poetry

A Conversation with the Wind

On the way to Phey village.
On the way to Phey village.

Her: “Gentle wind, take me home! To a place where I belong…”

The Wind : “Shut up, dodo! Just walk with me.
You walk not to belong, but to be free.”

Her: “Oh! But what about the many miles I walked?…”

The Wind : “When you know you could have walked more than you ever talked.
It’s one mouth, but two feet you got,
Simple calculations, as a child you were taught…”

Her : “… But right now I am tired and thirsty,
I am not one of them white stones, you see!”

The Wind : “The way you crib, you’d rather be.
For they are forever thirsty.
They cannot move, you see!
Unlike you, they can only hope to be free.”

Her : “Then why do you rain for them, and not for me?
Am I not better off than these?
I know better than to stand my ground,
And let my parched throat suffer from the very last words I speak.

A little water is all I need,
To make my body get back on my feet,
I’d better get going for I know I am free,
On that note, I say ‘goodbye’ to Thee. ”

And she exits the scene while the wind keeps talking to itself; somewhere far behind.
Or so it seems.

The Wind :

“Sigh! I’ve been ranting so long,
But a little more won’t hurt.
I must not forget that it was a human at heart.
A little water, a little soil,
For their little needs they’ll forever toil.
It mocked the stone that knew it’s ground,
For patience has no light,
And endurance has no sound.

It saw what it could see and went away to see new things,
I heard they call themselves ‘inquisitive beings’!

But if that’s what it was then why did it not wait,
When it put up a question,
But did not want to hear what I had to state?

Well, I rain for them too,
It’s not like I don’t!
But they make me rain at the wrong places,
They hear me protest, but act they won’t!

You see, blaming me is easier than bowing down to my appeal,
For the strength of the ground they can only feel,
When the sky refuses to host their selfish dreams,
When the earth resounds with their helpless screams.

And one at a time they drop with their wings cut or broken,
The fall reminds them of the words that were spoken,
In the past when they’d mocked the grass and stone,
They remember that when they feel utterly alone.

Crash! and they land themselves on the welcoming earth,
The white stones are now stained with their blood,
The soil turns red for some time,
Another one returned home after a while.

And I think I’ll make it rain tomorrow again,
The stones need a shower now,
That’s what they said. ”

     

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