The paths we did not tread
Despite all the steps we take,
There will be journeys
that were never made
Not because of
want of shoe or track
But because time
had never enough said –
Never whispered, that
we won’t be back
Not to that
windmill on emerald hill
Or those autumn-filled
melancholy eyes,
When wanton time,
it never stood still
That unseen sunrise
on an alpine lake
Still wakes us on
a restless dawn,
That temple with
Boddhisattva’s eyes still calm us
When we want to
cry, be reborn
That little boat
still waits to take us to the coral isle
Where the sands are
silicate fine,
Unspoken lines in
the bookstore wait
That day, to douse
us in our twin sunshine
These paths that
we did not tread -
Alas, seen only when
we cross the bridge of time
Eternal companions
that will always rise
Not because of you
or me or anyone’s crime
They are the souls
that fuel our dreams
The songs that
guide on a cloudy day
The colours that
dusk our horizon
To take one more
step on a weary way
These paths that
we did not tread -
Are the promises
that we pilgrims made
That new lines are
scribbled on every day’s page
That yesterday’s unwritten
lines don’t fade
But they won’t return,
not the way we know
No sunset ever
does really come back
Yet, each day’s a road
for the feet that walks -
The footprints
wait for one more track…
22nd May’2022
Years
back, in Wellington, I would look out with dreamy eyes – at a turquoise
harbour, a far-off church, the inviting
peaks of Mt Victoria and above all, a windmill on a hill. Between excel sheets
and power-point slides, I would tell myself that I would stay back one day and
walk to the windmill. I would imagine how the hills would look like beyond that
windmill, and if I could see the sparkling seas from that vantage point. But the
windmill was never conquered – perhaps it was not meant to be. By the time I
realised it was too late, the project was over, and I was stranded on the other
side of the Tasman Sea, the chapter of Wellington closed without that epilogue
I always wanted.
Just
like the Lake in North Sikkim, that valley of flowers, that monastery in a cold
desert…the list is long - but not one to feel sad about, rather to wear as a
badge that displays your vagrant soul. For when you walk, there will be
pilgrimages you make, and then, there will be many more shrines that will be
left behind, either because there is never enough time, or never enough money,
or both (I did walk to Mt Victoria after work one day - in a suit and polished shoes
that got covered in grime and dust after the hike).
As
the hits are celebrated, let the misses be not forgotten - let these cliffs of
unseen panoramas push us to keep hiking at least on the next peak. The views
will be different, undoubtedly, yet the winds will whisper with the same sense
of jubilation, if not grander, that some unfinished chapters are not meant to
be completed - they are supposed to inspire the next book altogether, richer, grander,
calmer…
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