Treasure Island

veeraiyah subbulakshmi


The palms of our hands..


The young seedling was planted in the open competitive world,
The unpredictable sun and the unkind wind are at play,
The liquid knowledge runs through the veins,
But the protecting hands are there to chase away the pain.

Each day passes in front of the observing eyes,
The mind has no other work, only the caring muse,
Runs out to shield the seedling from the cunning sun,
That wants to suck out slowly and steadily to let it to be a glum.

Years change its four season attire with multi tone desires,
The strong and healthy tree has come out from a selected seed,
That preaches the same lesson what it has learnt from,
The tired old hands: Those follow the instruction of the vision.

Every bird that sits on it feels the comfort of having the cool space,
To build the new nests for its yet to be born new offspring,
Taste the fruits of the trees, that reflect the kindness of a human,
Who has individually planted that entire seedling in the fertile womb.

What a life it is when we don’t share it with our energies!
The energy of love has to be dispersed, taxes can be evaded,
Blow as the wind to open the door of a waiting heart,
we may find a seedling to plant it in our mind.

Submitted: Thursday, May 16, 2013
Edited: Thursday, May 16, 2013
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