the end of a thought is never for its death,
but for a new beginning;
there is always a meaningful silence,
a metamorphosis, I do ever find,
between a stop and its succeeding word
like that of death into birth
when we are young, we observe, in mysterious innocence
standing in groups and at times, alone,
the mystifying silence,
of the mellowed autumnal leaves,
never knowing and never ever trying to know,
like small seedlings, their falling parent trees!
we shudder and they are gone
leaving rain in our eyes !
when we become them,
we miss, standing, standing alone and at time together
every minute, we miss in the fret and fever of life,
the blooming of our inheritors
trying to survive selfishly for ourselves, our great daily needs!
with a known helplessness,
with sickening roots of decay
when we prepare to depart from our children ,
the dictators of the future world.,
we take upon a new hue, nor so proudly but helplessly
giving the tree of life a new glory, a new glimmer, a new yellow sheen,
hiding our vain attempts to protest the old equation of life, decay and death.
death can never see
the growth of birth, though it wants!
and birth, can, never, never stop
the wrinkles on the face of growth,
the unpreventable prologue to death;
yes,there hangs a tale of silence, a wonder, a mystery!
a meaningful silence
a known wilderness asking which into which and why?
like the whispering wind on the blade of new grass
which also hangs on the branches of a dead tree!
this tale of silence does really mean something
something in greater terms
like lifelessness becoming small breathing life,
a mother becoming a child-
the blood of a stem amidst silent throes splitting itself into a petalled rose