pexels-photo-507828They say this is the twenty-first century

I say it’s laden with so much history

People admire the golden lamp in your family house

But can you tell them the story behind it?

Little children play with the teddy-bear on your couch

And long to know who brought it home

Do you recall who brought that Christmas gift

Or how much sacrifice it was worth?

Neighbours fetch from the stream at your backyard

Their hearts pray that heaven will reward your kindness

They’re fascinated by its depth and wealth

But do you have the words to quench their curiosity?

Your name. Your identity. People love you.

They smile at the mention of your name

They glow to be entangled in your circle

But can you tell them the truth of your birth?

We, like you, are people with so much brilliance

Beautifying the universe, listening to our aged

But when our old ones sail to never return

Shall we know our plots enough to write our history?



These days are orchestrated by hustle and bustle
And hardly do people listen to the blowing whistle
Every moment is filled with speed and rush
And none is left without a propelling push
Even the storms don’t wreck the tiny beams
Of what resembles the twin of dreams
As if this means little of much value
Every youth drives into the open avenue
The unborn read the scripts of heroes
And are swift to advance their own zeroes
Who insists then on blowing a trumpet
Or sounding the beagle in earnest?
The narrator may start the story today
But for the full yarn, she has set no date.