Contemplation Glints

India.
August 15, 1947.

A thorny circlet on its plucky temple,
makes the sweat go astray.
Yet it bows, gives a humble show.
Its greater dogma, at display.

Nonchalant, as it lets the thicker drip,
salutes to the esteemed one.
Bends to touch the fertility in itself,
submits to the higher canon.

A red-eye’s cries had been wasted,
deaf ears silenced the woe.
A vein was cut. Another, to resonate.
And the red did flow.

‘Twas when its heart and brain bickered,
that Trouble announced its decree.
It split. But congregated, as the ants were
marching towards the same tree.

And as the fire caught on afar,
Browns were draped in white.
One after another, nails hit the coffin,
all to its Master’s plight.

Its kite flew on a slender thread,
the wheel continued to spin.
It weaved itself into a handsome three,
and simply affirmed its win.

Burnt in the heat of a triumphant flame,
It bears a blackened hand.
Moist soil festooned by the revered ash,
Free, but fragile, it stands.

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