The only ship in the angle of my vision
seems to be still, as if cleverly painted above
the placid waves, that reject all agitations
near the shore I stand, a conspiracy perhaps!
No way I can tell if the ship moves away
or impatiently steers towards the port's embrace;
perhaps in keeping my spirit to espouse ambiguity.
Just a morning jogger from a planet far,
I am nobody to judge, still I am curious-
that vessel with an uncertain, navigational plan,
Isn't it me?Am I reaching anywhere, tell me.
I can see, none seems to expect it to come in
or go away and hide itself as a dot in distant horizon,
none who did bid it farewell, too is not to be seen.
Where have all gone, leaving no clue behind,
making it difficult for one to create dreams.
How so quickly time did erase all evidences,
which rendered goings and comings insignificant!
Is that static state, an illusion, a metaphor for life?
None is here to answer such questions as the world
has gone too far from there, to a space uncertain.
The port is busy as usual, any day it could be.
I wait for something to happen, will the ship
come to life astonishing me and move again?
I listen, the wind that blows from far horizon,
tells salty tales, tries in vain, again and again,
to recite the fish songs from deep sea blue down.
Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 1:33 PM UTC
The only ship in the angle of my vision
seems to be still, as if cleverly painted above
the placid waves, that reject all agitations
near the shore I stand, a conspiracy perhaps!
No way I can tell if the ship moves away
or impatiently steers towards the port's embrace;
perhaps in keeping my spirit to espouse ambiguity.
Just a morning jogger from a planet far,
I am nobody to judge, still I am curious-
that vessel with an uncertain, navigational plan,
Isn't it me?Am I reaching anywhere, tell me.
I can see, none seems to expect it to come in
or go away and hide itself as a dot in distant horizon,
none who did bid it farewell, too is not to be seen.
Where have all gone, leaving no clue behind,
making it difficult for one to create dreams.
How so quickly time did erase all evidences,
which rendered goings and comings insignificant!
Is that static state, an illusion, a metaphor for life?
None is here to answer such questions as the world
has gone too far from there, to a space uncertain.
The port is busy as usual, any day it could be.
I wait for something to happen, will the ship
come to life astonishing me and move again?
I listen, the wind that blows from far horizon,
tells salty tales, tries in vain, again and again,
to recite the fish songs from deep sea blue down.
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