The Gardener
Wake up in the morning and look to the horizon;
They are not as clear as they used to be.
The mist of things I have chosen to do, to support myself,
And the blur of daily chores have become intense and suffocating.
These choices, mine they are;
But I now think how mine they really are.
Where have my dreams fled?
Perhaps replaced by desires misconstrued as dreams
Whom do they belong to?
Don’t recollect their inception;
Maybe were planted by the reactive self,
Maybe were nurtured by the devil competitiveness,
Maybe were driven by others’ expectations.
Somehow know the seeds are somewhere cocooned there
Dormant in the still ‘undeveloped’ mind of mine
Untouched by the adulterating life experiences.
Sprout they will,
Only if the emigrated gardener takes to his original job,
Returns to the orchard and sprinkles some watering thoughts.
Labels: Gardener
posted by vagrant_vikas @ 10:23 AM
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