Shedding old garments, exploring
avenues unknown, taking
thorny, barely marked trails, making
most of the exiguous collection of lilting
words in captivity - tenants
who stay unwilling; what if
they decide to move out too,
like everyone does, move out
from my decrepit shack; an unforeseen rout
after which they seek fresh pastures anew?
What if they grudge the little tiff
that soured the sweet bond
that was held sacred once,
but which now lies profane?
All those years that passed me by, I toiled in vain
I have nothing to show for it, save the barren stretch of desert sands
where green refuses to set home; no sprouts push weary heads from underground.
But the sky is overcast, dark clouds herald monsoon,
they do, the pall of gloom is but transient.
Black churning clouds will weep saltless tears
that will seep deep, and give impetus
to all that green that lies somnolent.
Lush rainforest will displace wasteland; my broken lute will play sweet tunes too, soon, very soon.
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