The Sails of Paper

The cool gale of the monsoon anew,

pours through the wooden bars lining the ochre wall, stirring nerves.

Breathing life into the forlorn face, and weary physique,

it, as a dear welcome guest, serves.

Excitement floods the chambers of heart and the shallow recesses of mind,

as the defiant persona is enthralled by the music.

The music, to the tunes of which the blue-throat dances,

Stabs the wars, with a lustful trance so psychic.

Overjoyed, I rush out of my little hay cottage,surmising the green,

Of the vast countryside, now so lively with vigour.

The drizzle casts a mirage,like haze, onto which,

Is reflected a dear face, whose memory strikes every minute and every hour.

The soft, dry grass, serves as an alluring pathway,

As my feet rush me to that place, the shelter of which I crave.

Not far from here, a couple of dozen furlongs away,

Is a beautiful, cobbled bridge, with a brook beneath, now so brave.

The light drizzle, eyes to metamorphosize into torrents of downpour,

Yet, I eep walking barefeet, anxious and servile.

As that tiny brook, that little bridge upon it, melts the heart at the first glance.

I, unconscious in the mirth of monsoon, quickening my pace, smile.

The dusty little hutments, of the village far,

The tweeting flock of birds, amidst claps of thunder, flying away.

The cracked ashen ground, hued a dark brown,

And the brook beneath me, now much broader, have all few words to convey.

A giggle, silent and perturbed, makes way into my tune-engrossed ears,

And I glance around, to find that happy soul invisible.

Seconded by a yelp, I walk down the stairs lining the bridge,

To the brook beneath, all the way muddy, tiny footsteps traceable.

There, as I stay obscured behind a bridge foothold, from those little eyes,

Sits a child, caressing something, with mirth and adore.

He lets down, into those torrid waters,

his prized possession with feelings sore.

In an instant, I swoon away into the memory caverns of my puerility,

Which albeit, was bereft of dearth.

The many accusations, which mar my life,

Hum open and fresh like wounds, burning in the chill, like a warm hearth.

A faint silhouette, infiltrates the corner of my damp eyes,

As I infer, the beauty of that half-crumpled paper boat, amidst dark.

A pacific and tranquil visage, transverses the echelons of my sense,

Whose virtues, words and deeds, makes appear all truths stark.

I notice, the little boat, crossing the pallid waters,

Beneath the bridge, sighting a first time, the unknown.

In a flash, in a tick of the second, the rain-hit boat goes drowning,

Like an unworthy passenger, seeking redemption.

Seeing his boat, capsized by the now swollen river,

The kid, sadly sighs, picking another from his side.

It is again set sail, the third, following the second, surmounted with despair,

Only to cry over his failures, needing a guide.

Stepping out of hiding, I walk forward, hoping to bathe the kid,

With consoling words, to him, lend an arm.

The startled kid,stares with dreary eyes at a stranger,

And takes to his heels, towards the nearby farm.

I pick up the last boat, lying derelect and wet upon the hars rocks, beside,

And gently, put it into the currents ahead.

Lonesome, it dances to the mercy of the waves, beneath it.

I close my eyes, and turn my back, unwilling to see it drown away and fade.

Seconds later, I still find it atop the waves adrift,

The rain only able to drench its already soggy folds.

I contemplate that miniscule work of art, as it, sails away and futher away,

Out and far, unable to surmise ,for it, what future holds.