Sorcery Of Time Poem by Amar Agarwala

SORCERY OF TIME

Time is a great healer they say, it heals every wound. No one knows how long it takes, one needs to keep faith and hope together and wait until it does. It is difficult, ask someone who has been left forlorn in life and in pain and he'd tell you.
Yet, once I met an old man near a little village smoking a pipe, who asked, 'Have you come to visit the village? '
'Yes, but I would also like to meet the people here.'
'Wonderful... but there are many who once lived here, and many more than all who are there today in the village. Would you like to meet them too? '
Surprised I asked, 'What do you mean by that? '
He said, 'I meant the ones who are now dead and lie in the cemetery behind the hill.'
'Yes, that would be nice.'
He smiled and said, 'You're the first one who would like to visit a cemetery. Most people shy away from it.'
I replied, 'Cemeteries are wonderful places... and I know that they were wonderful folks who lie there. This world is not complete without them. Then how on earth could a village be seen in whole without seeing them? '
'You speak amazing truths. May I ask what do you do? '
'I am an out of work poet, ' I said to keep it short.
'No wonder you know the meaning of life, ' he looked bemused.
'I am still trying to find that... all I know is that I am pretty near.'
'I am an old man and do not know how long I will live. And I am fond of poetry too. Would you write a few lines for an old man.'
And I wrote on a sheet in my pocket diary and gave it to him:

Mortals come & mortals go
Wry life will ever pillage,
The sea and mountains remain
And will remain the village;

Memories lace old pathways
With a painful tear or two,
Lo dried with a mystic touch
Fine sorcery time can do.
****************************
He squinted and read the words by bringing the paper very close to his eyes. And then a tear fell upon the sheet.
'Sorry, if my verses hurt you, ' I said apologetically.
'No son... it carries the truth of this world. Just happened to reminisce old memories.'
'Have you ever tried writing poetry? '
He looked at my eyes for long moments and then politely asked, 'Can you kindly give me a sheet from you diary? '
I gave him one and he then asked for my pen and scribbled for a while and handed back the sheet. It read:

Time tells not how long to wait
Yet, we have no other choice,
We need journey through our pains
So that heavens may rejoice.

'You write beautifully... I mean you complemented my verses so beautifully and so quickly. I know no one who could do that.'
He just smiled through his wrinkled face, with a magical glow in his eyes.
'What do you do? ' I asked mesmerized that a villager could end my verses in a flash.
'I am a poet... also, never ever say that you are out of work. For you do God's work - it is he who decided that you be one. And for the one he employs to make the minds of men lighten, needs no other employment. You see he rejoices when we go through pain, for it is purifying our soul and readying it for the final journey to him. Therefore, I've written 'that heavens rejoice'. The heavens love us you see... and want us to be there with God.'
I stood speechless, as he put his quivering hands on my head and blessed me, muttering under his breath and then left me standing rooted to the ground.
A tear escaped my eyes... I am sure why I cried and for whom!