Your living is determined not so much by what life brings to you but as by the attitude you bring to life; not so much by what happens to you but as by the way your mind looks at what happens. – Kahlil Gibran
Smiling on the wall sits the ancient clock,
Chiming away – tick, tock, tick, tock –
The day attends to your curiosity
And the night courts your dreams
And between the hours on the clock
walk our insensibilities.
The Hand of the Seconds laughs at you,
And my mind spins a tale that is beyond
The imagination of the elves
And my heart beckons to the minutes
To explain the happening miracle,
And as we slide away on the island of existence,
Our gaze looks afar, into the infinite,
Towards the twenty-fifth hour.
It’s not often that I lose my ability to sew words and heartbeats together, and when that happens – like it has been since the past few days – then it’s because the magic of the guardian angel was missing.
Lovely years ago, when goodbyes were in the air
I saw the dust of our bond sparkle on the sand of farewell.
A few alphabets strung together
And so many emotions strangled,
I wonder how the mist mixed with the water
And irrigated the meadows of our lives
Only to leave behind an autumn that none of us like.
None of us like; and yet it exists like
The existence of the ghost and the shadow of the melancholy.