26-11

Do you speak the language of the rain?
If you do, please tell me what it’s saying.
Doesn’t it seem a little sad and melancholy today?
Does it also remember what happened on this day?

Are these raindrops but tears shed for those who were killed,
for the brave and innocent, our guardians and friends?
Do they wish to drown the heartless, who with hatred filled
the hearts of the gullible to achieve their ends?

Do these dark clouds seek to remind us of the terrible past?
Are they just passing through, or are they here to last?
Is the restless, rustling wind struggling to explain,
the solitude of sorrow and the pensiveness of pain?

Does the thunder talk of plunder?
Of cold blooded killings and surrender?
Of the destruction of timeless beauty and traditions,
Of meaningless hate and purposeless missions?

Does the Sun hide behind the clouds in shame
as we continue to blame the pawns in the game,
while the kings move around freely as before,
devising their devious machinations and more?

Will we remember this day only to forget?
Or will it remind us that there is hope, yet?
That bravery, courage and valor are not dead;
they are just soldiers waiting to be led.

– Sharan Rao

THE FECUND FIELDS OF FARLOW

There is a land, don’t ask me where,
Filled with nothing; yet, everything’s there.

There is no sun or shining star,
Yet light and warmth are spread afar.

There are no oceans, no rivers or seas,
Yet waves do dance, with mirth, as they please.

There are no birds, but there is lilting song,
Sweet, fulfilling, yet for more you long.

There are no trees that may flowers bring,
Still it feels like the midst of a blossoming spring.

There is no work, yet no dearth of things to do,
Everything’s always the same, still every moment is new.

And if you go there you will hear the subtle, supple sound,
Of perpetual gaiety and merriment, and laughter all around.

Alas! They say I must give it a name,
‘For how else will it retain its fame?’
And so, with an upward glance and a little bow,
I tell them, ‘these are the Fecund Fields of Farlow’.

– Written in 2005

THE ONLY CONSTANT

The ocean tides now so high,
Once, lost and low they did lie.
The winds blowing so fiercely today,
Were meek and timid just yesterday.

The Sun, so imperious in the skies,
Undisputed ruler, till he dies,
But even he, at the end of every day he lives,
His throne, for a while, to the night he gives.

The trees, once so dull and bare,
When their winter whites they did wear,
Now under spring’s splendid spell,
Are prettier than words can tell.

The bazaars, now teeming with people,
Are full of chatter, laughter and light;
But soon, they will be quiet and empty,
As they slowly embrace the night.

Many things, great today, will be forgotten tomorrow,
And seasons of laughter will follow those of sorrow;
The great cities of the past are now in decline,
While those in shambles, shall one day be fine.

In this world so very strange,
The only constant is change.