Mind, The Mother Of All Mess - I Poem by Aniruddha Pathak

My hands clutching tight years gone by and dead,
I mull old memories, do day-dreaming,
Hold eager hands cupped to catch those ahead,
That time I've none for the moments fleeting.
And lost am I farming the fields of yore,
Absorbed in thoughts of harvesting the yield,
Time I've to nourish seeds, nor yet water,
Nor I cherish green moments in the field.

Yet, moments dead and days gone make bad dream,
Morrows make no more than a vague vision,
Today, well-lived, can make the day gone by
A dream of joy to cherish forever!
I've heard this sure and often times before,
And still find me farming my fields of yore.
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Sonnets | 06.03.06 |