Life is
An open book
With individual imprints
Copyright material
with different names
Its pages vary for each individual
Man or beast
Flora or fauna
Some of them portray bright colours
Of shades of a rainbow
Some black and white
But each one tells a story
Written by strange invisible hands
In accordance
With the tick-tock
Of the biological clock
A fable or half truth
With bits of cinnamon
For added spice
For the most
It begins young and pure
Tender and sweet smelling
In mahogany origin
in shades of gold
its colour may or may not change
with time
depending on the stories it has to write
It divides into chapters
With different characters
Who may continue all, through out
Its unpredictable course
Or disappear
From time to time
Sometimes to reappear again
In a latter chapter
Or sometimes forever
Lost in between its pages
And the memories remain
As dust clouds
In silvery cobwebs
Etched in its pages
Its pages move
In rhythm with the waves
Tide and earths tectonics
Day time exploring
While Night time
Dancing with the moon
Waning, blooming and waxing
Until one day
Its source of ink stops
Its tick tock halts
It stops writing stories
As unpredictable as it started
Though no one knows
To reason out the causes
Still everyone respects
The laid out laws
The characters that remain till the end
Within its bounds
Mourns in epitaph
And finally the book is put to rest
To return to its unknown origin
The land of “never return”
Its pages closed forever
Leaving the stories
That it wrote once upon a time
Good or bad
Comedies or tragedies
Tales of sorrow
or euphoria
Tales of wisdom
or fool hardiness
No matter what
It had painted
To remain as foot prints
In the sands of time
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem