… is something that all poets, philosophers and every sensitive soul that ever treaded this earth has wondered about. Shrouded in mystery, the perennial question remains intact for many. One striking metaphor for life that Keats gives us is its being a dewdrop! Close your eyes for a minute and see if you are able to envision life in the form of a sensitive, soft and short-lived dewdrop…

Stop and consider! life is but a day;

A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way

From a tree's summit; a poor Indian's sleep

While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep

Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan?

Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown;

The reading of an ever-changing tale;

The light uplifting of a maiden's veil;

A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air;

A laughing school-boy, without grief or care,

Riding the springy branches of an elm.

--John Keats, from 'Sleep and Poetry'

The wilting flower mused about her fate

About her dismal desiccation

She protruded through the old black rock

Desperately reaching out to the half cut moon;

His silver shimmering aura

Forever eluded her clasp;

With dry petals and autumn's rage

She battled to achieve her long lost dream -

To reach out to her moon's resplendent delight.

She was a fighter, but even fighters fail

The scorching sun scorched her dream

Butchered her petals penetrating the dark

Her dream turned pale, yellow and dry,

Brown, desperate and eventually lifeless.

And while she mourned her maturing love,

Her tragedy became my life-long catharsis.

I jumped onto the helm of time

and held the reins of desires

to start off a journey.

A mere trot changed

into racing gallops and it

shuffled each of the sights

I laid my gaze on, keeping

the thirst of my eyes unquenched.

I was shaken off my seat

every time the earth raised

its slumbering head under its hoofs.

Amid the chaos, wishes

turned into curses

I showed time the way,

but it brought me here instead;

to the brink of a world

coloured in grey, raring

to take me along to

the darker shades of obscurity.

Your caress -

Animates the deserts,

It fondles the winds,

Lightens the dark.

Your memories-

Play balalaika for me-

Everytime I'm alone.

I dance to the air-

In the aromatic breeze.

Everything so perfectly settled.

So musical and lilting.

Don't want to change a thing.

I'm elated without you.

Busy in my melodious life -

And the dulcet memories!

This stinging cold

A cold coffee cup

Bare stiff feet

Socks misplaced

Extinguished lamp

Empty match box

Open windows

Gush of chilly breeze

An open diary

A scribbled end note

An empty pen (spilled ink)

Unpaid bills on the table

This dismal room

Smells of raw flesh

The gun smoke fresh in the air

From the corpse on the bed,

A fine trickle of blood

Pools on the floor

A voice rings in the mind

Just live through the night,

Tomorrow is sunny and bright

But I stay worried

For tomorrow may never come.

Fingers clenched

Fist closed

My hand tries to hold

But sand slips

Escapes

Rebels against my grip

Revolts against my control

My hand opens

Fingers, unfold

Curiously exploring new worlds

Callously crushing my hopes

Sand betrays me

With wind, it elopes