If ever there will be a world,
where water will hold no life,
and when poured in a glittering bowl,
it will not be nectar but a knife.
And when there will come such a stage,
when the mornings will have no chimes
even when the bells were rung,
a dreary cacophony all the time.
The noons then be filled by scorching heat,
searing new wounds on barren soil,
blazing over the burnt out remains,
and earth covered with grime and boils.
The mist will have no place to roam,
nor will it moisten any yellowing leaves,
at that time no flower will bloom,
there will just be smoke from dead-burning trees.
The evenings will have no time to adjust,
for the silence that will stray the grounds,
no shouts of joy or lamenting cries heard as such,
and sand castles will be just rocky mounds.
There will be no prayers no bowing heads,
no pain will there be, but also no joy,
no cooing cribs, no old time beds,
no miracles of birth and noone grieving the dead.
When this will come to pass,
that the sun will burn and not shine,
the land will be burnt-blackened rocks,
the ocean – just a vast lifeless brine.
At that time too the earth will be round,
and it will keep revolving without a sound,
the moon will keep an impassive gaze,
the stars will overwatch in a daze.
At that time it will take a few years,
which are nothing in this big cosmic gear,
nature will play its role on this grand-a-stage,
and life will again surely find its way.
What are we now to learn from this?
That, we are just Minuscule in the scheme of things,
even when there is nothing one can find,
something will be born from what’s left behind.
And life will again take its place,
and earth will regain its healthy tone,
the oceans will spill and land will breathe,
and we will again learn to live by striking stones.
Literary Expeditions 