Butterfly's song

The wings of the butterfly flutter and move rapidly. She becomes a poetess at the mere sight of those beautiful flowers. The carmine red, the lilac, the shade of pink laced with a stark white. A song with a heart. A song that the leaves dance to and the cuckoo hums rhapsodies of ecstatic praise. There is no trace of melancholy only sweet consonance.

Immersed in the depthless melody, squirrel feels hoity-toity and muses that if I pass into senescence, the rivers of this garden will be in capable hands. The butterfly while casting a constative look to the squirrel, continues to sing along. The garden was clothed in sackcloth. Time stood still and in this grand hogen-mogen, everything came alive.

A presence that disturbs me with the joy,
Of elevated thoughts, a sense sublime,
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of the setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And in the blue sky, and in the mind of a man
- Wordsworth

Sheath of words

Lying on a bus stop, with sparkling white hair glistening in the champagne rays of the dusk. He looked desolate and wore sadness and poignancy to cover his ragged being along with a robe of words. His orphic figure lent him a poet's disposition. Muttering away to people passing by; his words.
"Why are you looking at me, rather staring, I am not a raving mad person."
"You..you...you... look straight and wipe that smirk off your face."
"The sky is turning from a blue to a grey to a semi-black, the colours are changing. From the wardrobe of nature, Time chooses what to wear, during the day, it wears a bright shade and as the night approaches, it likes to slip into a darkness, a darkness that befits the moon."
"I may look dishevelled and dirty, my soul is not."
"Joy is the best makeup."
"I am speaking so fast because I want to see how the story turns out."
"Who wants to face a calvary before dying, you...you or you..."

Desultory he did sound, perhaps because he hears a different drummer. He maybe trying to step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.

Using words as a shield, one likes to hide behind them. The thoughts in one's head may be diabolic, however, words spinning out dresses up the devil.

Oh words, you are a release,
Oh words, you are a conundrum,
Oh words, you are a potent concoction,
Oh words, you are my ivory tower and hell....

A Sparrow's life

It is a delight to watch the sparrows chirp away their melodious selves and find joy. Their gay abandon, their bliss in who they are and the act of pure living. There is so much to learn from them. As human beings, we are confided in our melancholy and one has to imbibe and inculcate from their disposition. To be alive and to be able to change our lives is an act in self. One can only help oneself and then be in a state one wants to be in!

Sparrows probably have their own existential angst yet they are able to chirp, fly away and find their happiness. In the end, what remains is not in their control, but that does not desist them from being who they are. It is time to live, live like the sparrows, fly like them and also fly solo. In their solitariness they experience life.

Time to hold life in a deference and be alive. The truth is that when one is alive then only one can witness. Those who are not there in this realm must be alive in some other realm. From this realm to the other. From this life to the next. From a gripping truth to the other. Time is on the move.

To Time, I salute and pay respect.