Be Still

There is a madness about rejection
An aftermath; or perhaps, a quiet contemplation
An age to an eon
What is lost, can never be found

Be still, dear child
Soon those winds will stop with the wild
The storm would have passed
And all that remains will forever last

Steel yourself with numbness;
For Pain will only endure it's own

The flailing will not yield you gain
Sunny weathers do not promise rain

Be still, dear heart
Do not say those words, or let those sobs apart
Fallen, broken, spoken when
They never bring harbor, only echoes again

Yesterday, has come to whisper a sigh
Listen, for you will be reminded well

The land where blue meets blue
Is only a horizon, that the sight pursues

Beloved flower of mine, seek not the love shunned
Let the thorns teach you, what the gardener did not tend
Grow strong and patient, and graceful and tall
And so shall you slowly embrace the fall

Distant as the rejection you feel, better you Be Still...

LETTERS TO BUBBA - Epistle #2

Dear Bubba,

Spring was here. But like everything that lives; it was born and it has died. 

The pain from yesterday has stopped, and 'Singer' has her new litter. I do terribly miss you, every time, I smell the new born hay. With the onset of the monsoons here,  it pours neglectfully, but the air is impregnated with promises. 

I smelled a daisy yesterday; there is a wild foliage growing behind our house. At first, I couldn't believe my sight, but just as soon as I felt the surprise I couldn't help rush towards it. They are just the prettiest aren't they? Friendly and unassuming. You will be happy to know, I am now tending to them. 

Remember the Gonners? Our neighbors from across the fields. They are packed up and gone, now. The Mrs., I heard, got a scholarship in the city, and Mr. Gonner also got a job looking after some rich man's plantation off the city roads. They miss their first-born, dearly, but it feels good knowing that they are moving on. 

It just got me thinking; whatever, were we passionate about, Bubba? I can't seem to be definite about my passion. I don't even recollect having one. I liked a lot of things; painting, perhaps. Cooking? As much as I enjoy it occasionally, I don't think I have the discipline to pursue it. However, liking isn't the same as passion, is it? I would like us to travel some day. 

Blessed are those, whose hearts are known to passion; for their life will know dreams, joy and contentment. 

The tireless days, yield no sleep-full-of-dreams; night has ceased to exist and flows ceaselessly into a continuum of time. No distinction. I will remind my unborn to teach itself a passion. 

It has started raining again, and I will need to go and arrange a shelter for our daisies. Maybe I will start gardening.  You would like that, wouldn't you? 

Love for now, 

A!