The Golden Book Poem by Aminath Neena

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