The Banyan tree is dying, the little boy exclaimed

Who would believe him though?
It was not just a tree but a legacy,
A witness of generations.

The Banyan tree is dying, the farmer complained

Many a hot afternoon
He had sought its shade
What an inconvenience.

The Banyan tree is dying, the priests shouted

The holy site had led to
Many days of profit
And few days of satisfaction

The Banyan tree is dying, no one did anything

Time withered its branches
Termites ate away the roots
And the trunk fell like a giant.

The Banyan tree is falling, the workers cried.

Work to be done
Land to be cleared
Nobody cares.

TRUE CONQUEST
A bird's resting nest may be very small ,
But that is of no consequence at all !
Since the sky above its head is vast and
wide ,
Where it can spread its wings and fly, -
Across the vast expanse of the ethereal
blue sky !

Here on ground where we jostle for living
space ,
Man’s hunger and greed does not abate !
Alexander , Napoleon, and ****** had tried
conquer and shackle this earth,
But their conquests never could last!

I recall Leo Tolstoy's short story once more.
After having covered the furthest corners
of the land under his feet;
Galloping at top speed to make his conquest
complete ,
The rider totally exhausted falls on the ground,
Collapses and dies without a sound !
Only six feet of ground sufficed for his grave!
And so it has been for the bravest of our braves !

Now I recall the great Buddha under the banyan
tree ;
And the Messiah who entered Jerusalem mounted
on a donkey,
With shouts of ‘ Hosanna’ and with palms spread
across His feet !
Were true World Conquerors beyond defeat!
- Raj Nandy
   New Delhi
•

when I was born, I had
nine lives left, I was bereft
of scars, delicate as fireflies
in a jam jar
(the kind I’d punch holes in the lid for,
the kind I’d bring indoors
and set on my bedroom floor as a fairy nightlight, until I got bored
and one by one they died silent as the pollination of fornicating spores.)

anyways.

9 lives left, age: 2 months
but then one day daddy looked the other way and splash!
the baby’s in the *** and the ***’s still hot
(there are witches in the air but we don’t care)
looks like soup tonight! yum yum
third degree misery etched on her body,
one life done.

And nothing to show for all of her fun
but a twisted left arm and a ***** of a sun (burn)

One life down, eight to go, you know
because she’s a fox, which (if you peek over the ledge of your punitive box)
is like a cat. And that, as we know, means
nine lives, and that’s that.

well, eight now.
if you want, I’ll tell you how she (i) is (now) down several more.
worry not little one, fate always evens out
the score.

The second was me and a boy (THE Boy, if you know what I mean)
it would seem he and I had climbed two stories high
hand over foot over hand over foot over
the parking lot right up next to the sky
and then oh-
wait.

I’m falling.

(breathe in, breathe out)

(the itsy bitsy spider climbed up the water spout
down came reality and washed the spider out)

and there are
butterflies on the tip of my tongue and there is
a word stuck in my stomach.

he held my eyes just like I couldn’t hold
the pipe as I fell, right towards the earth between heaven and hell
now there are hot knives in my ankles and I think (I can’t tell)
I’m alive.

(stop drop and roll)

yes I fell from the roof through the sky. No I’m fine.
just one more life gone, I saw it flash before my eyes in a short space of time
that was roughly
the shape of a stop sign, or maybe a wind chime, or maybe
it was the shape of the sunshine.

Whichever way, that’s two down, seven to go;
the next one I lost when I rolled off the road.

We were going seventy and
the love of my life was sitting next to me and
his skin was beautiful in its caramel coffee complexity and
he wasn’t
paying
attention.

There is air in my lungs when I should be history
but the SUV only bruised my knees as it rolled, glass shattering
pit-pattering over the pinwheel of perfect destruction
around us.

I felt myself decide that it was okay
if this was the end.

At least I’d go with my best friend, there’s some
good stuff. That, I conceded, would be enough,
I could die young
if who I was in that moment
could be the freeze-frame of my song,
the thing that’s left
after I’m gone.

Three lives gone, only five left-
the next one is casually snipped like a price tag
after a theft when I fell
(again)
from the banyan tree and flipped my pancake
(click-clack) like a jacob’s ladder
I should have broken my back.

As I fell I yelled in my head
there’s nothing to fear but fear itself
(till you’re dead.)

four down, five to go Indigo.

Here we go.

(to be continued.)

The fiery wind burns our skin
this simmering summer noon
but our resolve is not paper thin.

the river is all ours
I tell her
and she whispers love notes.

When we retreat under the banyan
she scans the grey for clouds
and I her eyes for a mystic hint.

how lovely it would be
if it rains now
she says.

it would
I swear by the river.

We walk away
dreaming good crop
swaying in the river wind.

A seedling tiny of good remembered still
transformed uniform in vastness wavering
roots small of succor turn trunks huge sprouting
back from joys earthy,seeking skies many above
rejoined both, re rooted in mother earth eagerly,
hands and feet merged indistinguishably stoic
in an existence pure, to one being impervious.
a sapling soft now time twisted,gnarled,knotted
to an entity unique, massive of heart fused in soul
then just a being existing simply as one ordained so
by time!

sweet birds in me sing
on me your kids swing
around me in a ring
the gods now impinge
to them maidens cling
for a nice manly thing
under my cool wing
do elders advices bring
I amidst stand like a king
impassive to everything!

*A thought in my mind as I see the ancient tree in my village."Hemmara" in my native language of Karnataka, a state in India, means literally an ancient and massive tree.Normally and in some mysterious way this invariably will be a Banyan tree in the village center which has its roots growing out of the earth and joining the branches and branches stooping down and joining the earth to become roots! Around the tree over time idols of innumerable Gods spring up,Elders convene and advise the folk,kids play and village belles flock to pray for a good husband!!

Laced with ribbons of moonlight
Bangladesh a touched dream at first light.
Land of my father, my mother
sweeter than nectar.
Purer than the driven snow
brighter than raw gold.
Gazing stars’ bumped up bottom
down the untouched moon.

Men and the six seasons
living in one loving fold
our one fertile sweet home!
O Allah rank our martyrs our heroes
up high in paradise in bloom
brought Bangladesh freedom abloom!

Punters cumulus clouds fly
eyes on the sky blue  
on a spur hanging low tune into wild coo.
Picture independent Bangladesh
step in on the morning rug
rolls out outside the sun
walk through, the moon is inside!
Bask in, take your time
when the twilight adds a shadow
the beauty spot on your broad daylight
escape to more serendipitous discovery.
Eye on the stars or tuberoses on the ground
our free land is inspiring, beautiful even in the dark.

Laughs free from a tulip glass  
across the land, air and the water
upon the reed flute stirred river
flowing downstream to the hilt
from a deep-delved foundation out of reach
her raised high flag flies
over the pivotal banyan trees.

Every flap of our ‘the sun in the green’ shaped flag,
the light of heaven on the evergreen earth!
Ah, sways in the chalice of every flower
on the land cheers beyond the warm South
whispers to our hearts and makes us feel proud.

I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is your thoughts, my upset energies, and nightly turbulence.
Sleep provokes night and life and darkness prevailing in us.
When we wake up we are gone as our night precedes dawn
It is always the other way, bottom up and spaces spread.
At times we hear the police van’s shrieks, in night’s iron grill.

I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is not always the stick beating the road in rhythmic silence
And olive-green overcoat with flapped pockets and heavy boots
And six months old large-sized memories of a Himalayan home
With black-lined large dove’s eyes flitting among coal fires
Their smoke towering over the pines in snow-bound peaks.


I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is the turbulence we are speaking of, in the foggy sea we are
Or on the peaks where everything is bound in fuzzy snow
At the mountain passes where vehicles duly pass oiled by hot tea
Or in the mist-filled airports where aircrafts do not take off
Of politicians who decide mankind’s future in the apocalypse.


I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is my dreams as they were and the neighbor’s dreams
In the straw-roof, in the banyan trees with glints in their eyes
And much fine-powdered dust on their thick –coated leaves,
In lonely watchmen’s houses on the bleak stony spaces
And lonely watchmen keeping vigilant eyes on boulders
Strewn in brown spaces and scraggy bushes with strange lizards.


I ask that you be heard, tossed about and dreamed of.
It is the towering tombs and the trees that enveloped them
The children playing cricket in flying bats and stone stumps
Outside the vaults where kings and queens lay dead for ages
Their cold breath felt on the broken glass of Time’s windows.
I ask that you, I and women play a game of kabaddi in the trees
When it is still not dark enough in the minarets in the west
And children are still hitting ***** visible in the green of the trees.

Dripping rain...
Splash!
Croak croak...
The frogs!
Buzz
Assorted insects;
Wind gush -
Trees sway, but
Not the banyan...
Screech!
Monkeys again;
Splash!
Dripping rain...
Streets gone
empty, sky too
Where are the stars?
Hiding behind
monsoon clouds
of course!

You're my Greek goddess, all I do is worship you,
With characters like yours are only a few.
Not a moment passes without thinking of you,
To the heart you're a misty morning dew.
You listen to me tirelessly, console like no one does,
You show me the path that I failed to see in me.
Our roots are deep like that of the banyan tree,
We hold strong unsaid, we know we'll be free.

True its a mystery how far we go back in history,
Blending of our mind and soul, now that's a story.
I'm glad we've come so far to cherish,
There is no way, no way I'll let this perish.
I've memorized the mantra to your heart,
No possible storm can make our ways part.
They're jealous of us, glad you know that,
After all who better at this, than us.

In the drizzle I rushed as usual I was late
The 9oclock bus I had to catch at any rate
If I missed this one I had to think of a ruse
Explain late attendance make a good excuse.

It’s those moments that bring woes to men
Perils linger on the way waiting to happen
Throwing caution to wind as I blindly strode
My feet hit a cobble lying middle on the road.

The sudden pain halted me made me emit a groan
I cursed under my breath the god-forsaken stone
Abused the unseen fate that had thrown it my way
Caused me such suffering conspired to spoil the day.

But there wasn’t much time to vent more my wrath
I kicked it out of way so none else could cross its path
Hurriedly limped along for I couldn’t afford to miss
The 9oclock bus that would reach me to office.

In the bustles of life it was a small incident
Other things occupied me I forgot the event
Till one evening I saw it on a corner of the street
The stone smeared with vermillion away from unwary feet.

The cobble placed under a banyan tree had men gathered around
It lay there in austere dignity they had found it a secured ground
I asked one in the crowd ‘how came here this stone? ’
‘You can call it a miracle it’s there naturally grown’.

‘Now it’s going to stay here none can force it a shift,
It’s God among us in disguise to give our spirit a lift’
In the face of that belief I dared not on his face say
‘So this is your God who I kicked on the other day! ’

One Sunday as I was busy with the off-day’s pressing chore
I heard a din outside urgent knockings on the door
*‘It can’t be like this to leave the deity without a roof on his head
Please donate as much as you can a temple is needed to be made’.

Just like me,
If you happen to see,
This magnificent Banyan tree:
You would probably be,
Feeling free;
Or looking up towards the sky,
Likely heaving a sigh,
As you walk by.

Surely this banyan must provide
So many places to hide;
For birds to make their nests
Under its vast expansiveness.

If I were young
I would have clung,
To the roots and swung
Like a little child
From side to side.

But now
I'd rather look up and see
The wind blowing through the tree,
Watch the leaves shake and shimmer
Exposing their emerald green glimmer.

I'd love to sit in its shade,
Watch a wedding cavalcade,
Dig into the earth with a *****.
Feel the sun as he filters through,
Watch the hues in the morning dew.

The hill, meditative and tranquil
at its acme, stands a tree majestic,
a grandpa banyan, lost in thought,
birds on his crown sing all day long,
many different tunes
that merge in to one, and wafts in the air
the silver cloud, transparent above the hill
in its morning meditation
stands still
below the hill is a river,
the water runs deep, so pleased it seems,
meandering around the hill,
hurrying on its way to the ocean,
yet unknown.

In a boat the lone traveller sits,
as the wind blows the boat gains speed,
he looks at the mast, so white,
the sun sits above it,
vigorous, splashing light,
around the boat he sees a shoal of fish
languidly swim,
a fish, he is in life's stream
a ray of light, a drop in the river
a wisp of cloud that drifts and dissolves,
bit by bit in blue expanses,
All one, just many facets of eternal.

Wander alone, for once
Wander about,
on this earth
you don't quite understand

Take a nap on the sea,
for once
feel the cold water
being warmed by the sun

Sleep by the banyan tree,
for once
watch as the snake slither
under your feet

By then you'll hear whispers;
someone else inside you
Yourself, but not you,
saying things you dare not speak
Of pronanities, maybe
or of sorrow
your deepest wish, perhaps
of not waking up the next morning

So wander alone, for once

She held a heap of firewood
Atop her tender head
Walking down the narrow road
That led to her hamlet.

That old banyan tree couldn't
Allure her with its shade
Nor the burning sideways
Could force her pace to jade.

No sign of sorrow, grief or pain
As quiet as she could be
Would death alter her calm
Or would it set her free.

Prashant Shaurya ©

All Rights Reserved

.
..
...
When the inflated crunching sky turns into the black hole, one by one the expected stars slowly falling on the horizon, sudden deep dark clouds cover the silky face of moon, or the earth takes the full moon.

Long, long shadows darken the meadows, southern wind can’t open your closed window at all, standing along on the curve of a road, a sigh to fly in the wind, roaming heart finding a home.

See the mystic form of the known objects, distant standing old banyan tree suppose to feel a lonely friend of mine, a friend of rootless time, when silly, bogus thoughts engulfed me, want to break up but change does not cry out.

Melancholy beauty in the dark, floating with the imagine gulls in the sky, draw the red sun on the canvas of dark sky within the wings of dream, again see you are playing with the seven colors across my unfinished sky.
.
..
...
@Musfiq us shaleheen

An abyss that echoes shrieks of eagles circling above:
the moon lies smashed in her sunken depths by nights,
this pit of enveloping darkness, a vessel emptied of life.

Brick by brick, aeons layer her walls, who knows when
she was dug? she carries fragrances of primordial waters
gathered in the heart of earth to the winds of the present.

Long before Joseph's well, she stood when desert land
was verdant wood, and before the earth was tread
asunder by the chariot, this graveyard of the stars.

Plunder she has seen, and abuse as she towers over the past.

Not a wellspring, emptied dry, but a bowl abegging.
The bowl that gave a creed to a continent?
Caravans pass by disgraced crevices remnant
of that era, gone long of stone. Effeminate, she pawned
her bricks over for a life. Or a well to collect the dead,
frightened by the hundreds by the colonial bullet.

Rise and fall, she carries in her wheel of life, her spoked zero.
Of which yet arises a homespun yarn of dreams.

Darkness wells forth from this abysmal chasm, and her
waters cause feuds by brother to brother. Men of straw,
of whom in a few years, no trace would remain,
yet remain and the dove that flew the night a tryst was made
still challenges the jacketed savant on Parliament square.
A pair of inverted eyes guard the gates of darkness.

And now and again, you see yet a star
shooting out to the skies again from the waters: to the moon,
a mushroom cloud, a circling satellite, and an octet notes.

She's not one well: her waters brackish, are
a thousand islands, that came together under the shadow
of an empire on whom the sun never sets.
Count the roots of the banyan, trees.
Her sons grow weak and lumpen. Her daughters rise.
And so she endures, this ancient mother.

In her depths, on the day, when the star of David is reversed,
she endures the ******* reversed, that shined in her of ages ago.
Of men, two quarters great, arise from the same shadow:
The eagle on the west, and the dove on the east.
The not is the all, the zero is everything.
Eternity, two zeros conjoined.

The woods resounded with each thought in your mind
But the words were tripping over themselves
Like the ancient trees, their overreaching roots, deep underground
Like the canopies, so intertwined, no tree could claim ownership
Like those worms who made their homes everywhere, and lived everywhere, all at once

The woods resounded with each thought in your mind
But the words were unintelligible; hieroglyphic
Like those haunting sounds at night, when the insects crawl and cowardly predators prey
Like those etchings on beautiful trees, bearing a hundred year old story, be it love or revenge
Like those indiscernable twines of creepers, snakes and curly twigs; sly, deceiving, inviting

The woods resounded with each thought in your mind
But the words were just a mingle of whispers
Like the spider's sweet rumblings to the flies, invitations to his abode
Like the torturous immigration of winds, tree to tree, blade to blade, a shrill tune in its wake
Like the chantings of night fairies, wishing health and wealth and death and breath and everything, in hushed melody

The woods resounded with each thought in your mind
And I reached out, caressed the stringy trails, tripped over some, embraced the halo of your presence
And I let them struggle with me, smiling as if that was the essence of peace, and then inhaled the torturous wind
When I could breathe again, I recognized the words on that old banyan tree where you and I became immortal
All hail the homeless, the hieroglyphs, the whispers; and the woods spoke no more.

We started too quickly.
Both torn from our last companion.
So we rushed in, sickly
And lept from the grand canyon
No landing zone. No bungee
Only resistance was my banyan.

As we descended into certain doom
a single thought occurred; I don't like you.
I'm pushing you away so I may land in my own tomb
And when comes the cleaning crew
My mess won't mix with your gloom.
Such a reliving thought to be separated with hew



A most despicable thought is being for better or worse with you

Sincerely,
Timothy Brown.

P.S If you don't understand, I'm breaking up with you.

Taste full
waves made
rolling
moare of
you

discom
bobulated
model
compiled
of tons of
things not
made of
us
in a
constant
grasp
of your
bending
banyan
limbs a
mangrove
combinding
to keep an
open
meyend

total
composite
of things
outside
of me

On your shoulders, slender waisted maiden,
you carried the burdens of this earth: like
Atlas of the old, you of Amazonian strength;

Yet today you sink, weighed down by
the vanishing vestige of shadows aflicker.
Shadows that consume all, engulfing nights,
harbingers dark of conflagrations rise.

Disbelief is our creed. But enough we believe
to vote them to power, our leaders we so love.
Yet in the hour of decision, we must believe
in their indisputable dishonesty.

Yes, aliens are around, Area 51 is for real,
late night appearances on Larry King live?
For the select few, sure, for a select price.

Osama did not die. In fact, exist, he never did.
Flags felled of the towers twin ? False, them false!
How belief, when Iraqs can happen?
Whither the weapons of mass delusion?

Conspiracy. In bloodlines is our interest
but not in the man who gave that blood for us.
Alas those to preach that love vested,
too are in gossip and scandal invested.

Fickle is our love, the mistletoe occupies now
the sacred space of the matronly banyan, and
the owl upside down, for the dove beloved old

A drum beat. A distance.

Breaking out of her veils,
a tender morning.
Hum of the winds.

Hanging roots of the banyan.
Emerging out of mists.

After many lives perhaps
a meeting.

I closed all doors and windows
and lie listening to the tired fan.

You have found your way in,
smiling in the leaves
past the grill,
shadowed on the ceiling.

Oh this feeling. That can light
two hearts. To know this,
to know this.

The roots are hanging strong.
Upside down.

Tugging at the heart, the
solitary song
of the early koel.

Mists un-heeding,
sometimes succeeding.

And you and me are still
Young enough to really live
We are simply melding
Into another season of emotion
The years are just beginning
To gray what they have claimed
And have been allowed to claim

The wind blows away what it can--
What cannot be tied down

Keep whispering
Your soul into my soul
Keep primal scream tears          
Falling into my primal soul

Keep filling up the empty spaces
Keep creating empty spaces

Tearing down the vacant walls
Building up new walls

Opening locked doors
Locking others in turn

As we forever transform together
Under the aegis of the Immortal

As we grow like the roots
Of the banyan tree

Hanging down with the branches
Helping to provide shelter
As we slowly grow closer
To the sweet earth
In silent anticipation
Finally touching
Slowly penetrating
Gently pushing deeper
Until we are of one purpose

Deeply rooted by the banks
Of the Eternal River
That descended from heaven
And flows through
Human spirit transformed

Life-giving water running slow
And deep the source of your whisper--
True essence in deepest longings

Flowing into my source
Pockets of holy energy overflowing
Slowed down to a trickle at times
Going full circle and
                                     Back and forth
From out of reach channels

That something deep beyond
                     The starry masses

That something some call love

That something some call God

That something flowing & living
                                  In me & you.

Far way on a Banyan tree
Feeding her little ones three
With a wish to see them grow
The Mother feeds crow crow
Knowing that one day they will flee
Through her chimney's upper opening
Mili, see this happening
With a flow through her cheeks
The Mother feels bleak bleak
Mourning of her forlorn living

I held her in my gaze on the iron rail of summer noon.

This moment of humid silence wetting her heat burn cheeks

I knew would melt pretty soon.

Like moisture droplets on her lips and her palm’s sweat

This heavenly moment would retreat

With its phantoms of fancy it’s never too late!

Then sobered and in saner head

We would find our place under the banyan’s cool shade.

I remember very vividly
The place where
a sweet smell lingered in the air
And though it must have
rained at times
The sky was never too grey
And the cold never too bitter

The sun liked to play hide and seek
From behind the banyan tree
From which dad had tied a swing
Not too big,
Not too Small,
It would take me
high enough to believe I had wings
But not too high
To make the crashing look painful.

I remember about a place
Where I lived
It was so long ago
It carries with itself
The sweet nostalgia
of a dream
that ended too soon.

Dreamy, but real enough
To not be mistaken
As a fabrication
Of one's imagination
Real but dreamy enough
To waste the entire galaxy wishing upon it.

I remember about
The labyrinth
I would walk with my Nana
What for
I can't seem to remember now
But all the things he said
Are the foundations on which I have built my life.

These concreted paths,
These dimly lit rooms,
The days blurring into the next ones
Till I can't distinguish one from another.

The faded memories,
The jagged longings,
The flame in my eyes
Has completely extinguished
The music in my heart
Is slowly ebbing.

The heart's longing
The mind Is seeking
These leisurely moments
Which are lost now,
To a place probably
Where my childhood went
Along with my Nana.

If someone finds a way to get those days to me,
Let me know,
Till then I'll be writing
Of those days
I had with my Nana.

The country road like  poet’s fancies unravels
Through the   giant hanky- sized paddy fields
And  the dream  sized ponds
Dotting  the landscape
in perfect  squires and riots of skewed and regular shapes
The green spread and the muddy beds, spell the village beauty.

Parrot green fields
And  stark blue skies  look at each other
In perfect silence, like mother and babe
And a   great , grey house  exposing its ragged bricks,
Bared like  the buck tooth of the old
Provokes a  village memory

Past picking itself slowy and ambling into the future
Its wooden columns
stand like mute  exclamation marks!
or so it may  look to me.
Flies  the  skidding scaly tarred  snake  
Fast and spreading like the traveler travelling on it.

Patchy it looks, now;  
And  full like the  misery  of the scorned lover
Eager like  the  maiden speech of a parlimentarian  
The country road, runs  fluid like a stream after the rains.
As the rustle of the engine   trips and   falls
into the  divine  air.

A  roaming peacock calling adds  charm to the great whole  fare
A winged beauty, struts across
Nudged by the sputtering , speeding me.
The exotic avian   attains the hedges galore
With its   metal blue  feathery strangeness blurred in my glancing eye
A species rare, found only in ornithologists diary.

A  clamour in the  air
And the   school boys emerge in buddy pairs
Beneath the  village banyan
That  let loose its tresses to dry like a country maid.
I see, a promising glint in their eyes
The  will make themselves of  king and ministers of the modern days


The  sonority of ringing bell  
clubs the cacophony of school boys  in into two dead parts.
They return to their classes, sanctified by the silence,
And open their minds to the feminine vocie.
A Glorious moment ,
As the  morn of wisdom is born

Rich are the sightings of poor country side
And many are the mappings on the way,
My sensibilities recouped,
I drove back
not spent
But profound.


sound.

Sea billows rose and fell from inner turmoil and out of the briny deep came the goddess herself she
Came out of the break waters strolled upon the shore and in mid stride she began to change into an
Island maiden she wore sea shells down low on her hips they made a wondrous skirt for a top she had
Turquoise Linen created from blossoms that were gathered from the Banyan tree which also seems out
Of place with its roots so high above ground she had such a stance of nobility it appeared as if the Island
Was bowing in her presence perhaps it was her eyes they were watery soft they seemed to change colors
Like the waves do when they curl and the sunlight floods them her arms were like the flowing branches
That gave a distinctive glow that spoke a whispered welcome and her hands were delicate as all sea
Shore flowers combined her movements were like the swaying palms she spoke and mystery like a
Sea cave with water rushing in it was voluminous it was enriching you felt great swells enveloping you
Like the sea **** with under water currents at play she was a dream like version of Pele the goddess of
Fire they had met at the water’s edge when Pele was causing the lava to flow as vents steam and ash
Was awash the island seemed to have started burning at its edge and was moving inward it was a bit of
Amusing distraction for them both and it did contrast their personalities one with the heart aflame and
The other a heart of deepest blue waters that have enthralled and captured the minds of many sea
Faring person’s duty would only allow them the briefest respite one temperate the other the waves
Wooed her from far and near and she could do no other than answer their call tonight it was on this
Unfamiliar escarpment she made the perfect picture her postured back framed by this high cliff with her
Facing the sea her soul surged to the surface with the amusing love filled look that filled her face as she
Looked ever homeward into mysteries only she could divulge but today was her time of stress some
How some where someone had wounded the seas crust and the other wise contained oil that was
As an inner ointment and salve that could be depended on with wisest understanding it would release
The thinnest lines to increase the seas life and otherwise continue its hidden life to creatures that were
Foreign and restricted to land mass it held a special interest undoubtedly it was there interference that was
At fault she listened to the voices of this tribe but could come to no solid conclusion as to what in
Particular had occurred but by going ashore she gained new perspective she gave herself to unfamiliar
Rhythms wasn’t this hard surface the continuation of all harmony that as a whole had endured these
Seeming eons of time she finally agreed this was just a ripple in an otherwise calm universe so she
Gave way to her hunger to return to the sea and all of its pleasure and comforts she knew her news was
Good and all would rejoice as they heard it no longer would the sea weep out of character but be the
Unending story of renewal with a fixed unstoppable future as it has always been