If Truth Be Told

The monkey closes its eyes in reverence to all that
which sustained the family for so long a time.
Over there, a group of men
sit on the ground chanting verses
incomprehensible by us,

yes 'we'

we the intelligent lot
with all our naive pride.
Aren't we but tiny
compared to the vast timelessness?
Wouldn't we go back to the Earth?
Where would our pride go then?

The festival of rain,

one that made everyone dance
has long dried, its people dead,
its fields barren, its children in the army,
fighting battles, biting their nails,
crying in their locked rooms,
smoking a cigar,
thinking, wishing,
praying, dreading,
tomorrow.

And we,

we eat, we dance,
we drive,we sleep,
we wake up the next day
hoping it would be different
but,
its the same old story.

Always!

The old men
play cards at the table
knowing very well
that tomorrow is but
a distant dream.
It could come
but-
there was always a but.
And all that they have
is that something
we call wistful.

Their eyes
wise.
Their smile
never fading.
Their skin
wrinkled and old.

Their hair
falling like the last leaf
painted by the artist,
his greatest offering
one that he calls
his masterpiece.

And then, they leave this Earth

an endless cycle
that offers us a few lessons-
to be learnt,
and compassion
to be felt.

Just an inward glance.