All that idle thought
About what is yet to be
And what might not
The struggles to set me free
Of the fears yet unsought
And even later will be
A confirmed useless lot
Vanishes with the seven twelve
That takes me to the city
As I sit by the window and dwell
Over a pack of spaghetti
And whether I have enough tomatoes
To make a perfect sauce
All my borrowed woes
And the little cosmetic loss
Dissolve in caustic and brine
In a chaos, never to be recovered
And I am just as fine
All packed with a lunch and showered
Waiting again, for the seven twelve
That completes the circle
Of my worry-less quantum of Life!
1 comment:
The Seven Twelve is eternal with eternal fears! This is life. The circle is circle because it is circle. To overcome the eternal fears one has to break the circle.
This again corelates with भय इथले संपत नाही. but in a different sense.
Good poem!
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