I am more of a rough writer. I scratch a lot of poems in minutes and forget them later. Whenever I sit to write I just want to get it done faster. Therefore, most of my writings turn out to be raw and casual.
However, I am trying to write this poem by taking time and making improvements. Hope I do not get mood swing and complete this in next 5 minutes. If you spot any grammars error before or any of my articles, just ignore there are very rare chances that I will go back and correct them.
So, what should I write about today. I still have not decided yet, even while I am drafting this line.
Should I write about the rivers, hills or my times from the past.
I think I should write about dark times or may be some kind of spiritual poem. Oh gosh ! I think this is getting more weird in my head itself.
After about 10 minutes of contemplation of my times in past.
I hear the sounds of the axe nearby,
Cutting woods in to pieces,
I turn my head to the left,
See a farmer, struggling to cut logs for firewood,
Sitting besides are their children, waiting,
To carry logs and take home.
That is how beautiful the piece of wood is for them,
No food is going to be cooked in their home if they do not have that firewood.
I sit by the the river,
Watching the old man slice the firewood.
I turn to the right,
Face straight,
See those currents in water,
These big stones,
Crafted, sliced by soft water,
By hitting it million times,
I want to jump there and feel the coldness of water,
But sad I cannot swim,
I am just meant to sit here and stare the water,
Never to dive,
Just to encounter the actions live.
No I cannot stay here anymore, the breeze hitting my lower naked legs,
My soul shivers,
I look around,
The old man is gone with the firewood,
The sunset is about to happen,
I see around,
I know where I need to reach,
Which way I need to go,
But I still feel lost,
I know I can reach there soon but still I feel like not moving,
I feel cold but still I want to be shattered by this breeze.
I want to stay, but still want to get lost in those river waves.
Should I stay there forever, or leave for working and work it,
like the farmer chopped the firewood and may be now cooking
the fruits of his hard-work,
Thinking what to do tomorrow,
With no questions of life and dreamland,
Just the Present and it deeds.
