A Song, Unfinished.

The cool wind strokes your face,
Irrespective of that you quicken your pace.
Eyes searching, head bent low,
Your gait as fluid as the water’s flow.

Where are you headed, my fair lady?
All covered up, looking rather shady.
Is that a smirk that I read on your lips?
Or just a play of shadows from the way your hat tips?

The swaying trees respond with sighs and groans
To the blowing wind’s occasional moans.
Your eyes look up to see the glowing moon,
While your ears listen to the nocturnal beasts croon.

Ah! Now I see that moon-warmed face —
So perfect, so pretty – I’m all in a daze…
But unfortunately, the moon didn’t capture your attention for long,
And so you looked away before I could finish this song.

*

(Hardly An Excuse)

I haven’t been around much. But being busy is hardly an excuse.

Because while the cascading waters of ideas flooded my mind, my hands lacked the strength to find a pen and paper, or as would sound more plausible, a keyboard. My mind wandered, my eyes rolled, my tongue flicked, my phone beeped; the charged up ceiling fan continued playing with the leaves of my textbook. And all this while, I didn’t pay attention to the Clock that had stopped counting the minutes and hours, dejected that nobody cared enough to see it starving for words.

But then I decided to check the time and realized how late it already was. The Clock had changed fashions and insisted on wearing a cloak of dust with a frown. My once lively Clock, which moved with high springy steps, its heels clacking on the concrete floor with a tick and a tock, now lay forgotten; lost in the haze of its keeper’s psyche.

It rarely cried out for want of attention – ever conscious that it was of imposing on people and taking their time. True, it needed more confidence in itself; the realization of self-worth. But it was, ultimately, just a Clock – a Clock in need of words for crutches. And for this, it needed an attentive keeper. Which I must confess on this hot Tuesday, I have failed to be.

But I am delighted that the Clock welcomed me (and my feather duster) with a smile perfectly round; that it did not look away and strut around, hitting me hard with silent rebuke. Instead, it came up to me and bathed me with warmth and cheer – much like the wave of water that laps up the feet of an indifferent passerby on a hot, sandy beach, taking it upon itself to cool his burning heels.

I am delighted because instead of playing victim, my Clock decided to take it upon itself the job of reinforcing my faith in me, whispering softly in my ear that my fingers still enjoyed dancing on the keyboard to the musical notes my imagination rolled out. Or that the smell of ink still excited me, spurred my imagination, got me writing. Because to be honest, the thought of me losing out on my ability to churn out sensible, coherent sentences was making my pulse race with fear. But fear is never good, the Clock said. It cripples you further.
And fear… is hardly an excuse.