Futile

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The forests are never unyielding,
light falls, rebuked by their feathers,
and some rays caress gently enough,
to be allowed passage undiminished.

Little green and white buds,
of fresh olive green turn darkened green,
bloom into the sunshine wide eyed,
pressing gently on the rays.

light is a sinful perpetrator ,
it impregnates lifelessness,
with life and, harmlessly it seems,
sobbing in ecstasy, spraying its pollen.

April is the cruelest month,
the fireflies maraud aimlessly,
earnest it seems is their endeavour,
their thoughts are never scuppered.

but time wilts all, age masks ignorance,
the tempest too plays it tide,
in the east where the sun shines,
nakedly flooding the earth with its pride.

The fire then, is burning, of unspoken,
resentment,and pervading solitude,
in the shade of the sun,
the leaves whither away in time.

Wilting in the sunlight,
bathing quietly, in agony they shine,
condemned to shine,
condemned to be desirous to shine.

Thoughtlessness is wished,
weren't only the virtue of the dead,
in yards strolled by wishfully in time,
answering questions unanswered.

Oh, the futility of it all,
as if it wasn't ever so obvious,
reminds of a little game we played,
looking at black stars in the sunlight.

Kartiek Agarwal

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