The Blade of Grass

I sit, on the banks, the place
So familiar to me. I am in deep
Thought, pondering o’er my life,
In meditation over the past, my
Actions, my good and bad.
There is a blade of grass at my feet,
Still young, two shoots old. Rustling
In the breeze. Joyous it is, with life.
In a swing of my arm, I pluck it out,
From the barren earth, still soft from
The moisture o’ the last rains.
It comes out with its roots, holding
Its life, quivering in my hands.
Feels like I touched the low limits of
My endurance, to my self worth.
I keep looking at it, taking off its
Soiled roots, with the blades left
In my clutch. I took it off its world,
A figment in its destiny to die today.
But why? My mood is not the price
For a life. If I cannot create, can I
Destroy? Can my limitation be the
End of a meek life? I carry the dead
Blade with me, to ponder later. To
Make it a martyr in my struggle
To become a better Man?

O’ you moon

O’ you moon, who shines
So high, in silent glory,
In the purest white, as the
Symbol of solitude, as the
Image of a chastity promised
To man by the Gods, in the
Celebration of excellence in
Spirit. Come down to us moon,
You who are so high, up there
There are no paths for us to
Come to you, neither are there
Ladders. Our necks pain from
Our craned yearning for you.
Shine on our courtyards. Our
Children, play on their brows,
They sleep in sweet innocence,
Make them smile then, in vestal
Satisfaction of the moment, of
Their youth, of their purity.