Like an old rock in the way of stream
in deep sleep lost in dreams
staring at the cloud as if to tell
“shower now or go to hell”

like a drop of water falling with the cascade
ignorant to what’s there in his fate,
flowing with a stream to a destination unknown,
with no joys to cheer or grief to mourn.

like a speck of sand in the desert vast,
flying away with the wind that is fast,
to an oasis somewhere that isn’t a mirage ,
on it will sprout a vegetation that is large.

like a heap of mud awaiting to be kneaded,
to be shaped on a wheel , on a kiln then be heated.
helping the potter earn a square meal,
to other’s life adding that trifling bit of zeal.

like a flower of cumulous up on the sky,
heaving over wetlands and tracks that are dry.
with no one to be answered nor one to ask,
an account of what has been his task.

or at least the drop of ink in the pen,
given shape of words by great thinking men.
or an ugly scribble by a fool known to few,
for whom his he scribbling , he himself has lost clue.,