We all live with a box.
There inside lies black papers,
earthen pots, some postcards
of countries I have never been,
A few letters and a past.
Some trees have roads in between.
They stand in a row.
When it pours, I come out with the box,
Take a drop or two of seasonal rain,
Keep it.
The earthen pots may melt.
The postcards are old, they refuse color.
But clouds travel.
This rain may come from cross-atlantic.
I keep all that I can not touch, then.
Possessions are not prismatic.
They reflect pity.
They reflect past you can't live without.
For all of us, the box is that.
Some day I will go to the quietest river
and drop the box with all I had.
Then I will dive.
We all die with and without.
- SoUmY@
There inside lies black papers,
earthen pots, some postcards
of countries I have never been,
A few letters and a past.
Some trees have roads in between.
They stand in a row.
When it pours, I come out with the box,
Take a drop or two of seasonal rain,
Keep it.
The earthen pots may melt.
The postcards are old, they refuse color.
But clouds travel.
This rain may come from cross-atlantic.
I keep all that I can not touch, then.
Possessions are not prismatic.
They reflect pity.
They reflect past you can't live without.
For all of us, the box is that.
Some day I will go to the quietest river
and drop the box with all I had.
Then I will dive.
We all die with and without.
- SoUmY@
Comments
I live in letters and post cards that weave me imagery of lives I have not lived and lands I have not stepped into.
"Possessions are not prismatic."
How profound.
You write as if your heart is a little brook gliding on terrains up and down, where human mind rarely treads. And I cannot help but marvel.
There are so many levels in which I relate to this, but I find no reason to elaborate. I'd only be repeating your words.
There inside lies black papers,
earthen pots, some postcards
of countries I have never been,
A few letters and a past.
.
.
.
.
.
Then I will dive.
We all die with and without.
Something that Gibran does to my soul... you have done it so well..
If you havent earned this masterpieces worth enough acolades.. plz.. just read it one again..
I can see the quietest river approaching... there are these sounds ..i smell those meanders and silt... I inhale the Wisdom that we ALL DIE WITH AND WITHOUT!
They reflect pity.
They reflect past you can't live without.
For all of us, the box is that.
That is an absolute truth. And how well have you enunciated it, with such a beautiful metaphor! There is nothing to dissect or dissemble in the past... it is the one thing that always in some form or other, longing or disgust, evokes pity!
Outstanding observation there!
We all die, with and without!
By itself, that is a poem! Succinct, yet eloquent! Can we live without the past? Or with it? Catch 22!
They reflect pity.
They reflect past you can't live without.
For all of us, the box is that.
Immortal lines Soumya...gave me a feel of being back in AHP for a while..great to read you after a while..
Beautiful is but just a word. :-)
Your comments are something that keeps me going. They understand and encourage the post as if it has life. Very few can do that. God bless you.
Mythreyi,
I am glad that you could do that. To relate.
Kamna, Gibran! oh I adore him. Thank you that you atleast found a similarity. I am greedy :P.
Love your comment. You have been there to help, pray, write.
Usha ma'am, sigh. that's an expression when you know all that I wished to keep secret. :P
Thank you.
Rohan, welcome! Love your comment. Brings back a little AP here only. No?
Gopal, oh you are generous. You always have been. One of my oldest friend and you still haven't lost faith on me. :P
Deboshree, then I will only smile. You have said the rest so beautifully.