When the world was still round,
And mornings smoothly slipped into evenings,
A really lost little girl
That she couldn’t do with rickety bridges.
So she burnt them all.
And burnt some more, as she grew up.
“That’s not the right thing to do.
The world is a really lonely place,” she was told.
She said that she could
Deal with bouts of loneliness,
But couldn’t bear
The nervous drone of a life
That moved on weak, rusting hinges.
“It’s good to have people there for oneself.
It’s good to keep alive
The possibility of mending bridges,” she was told.
But the girl,
Slightly crazy as she was,
Thought the whole concept of future
The obsession with permanence,
Now what do you do with people like her?
How do you reason with them?
Who would live either on soaring peaks
Or in abysmal valleys,
But nowhere in between.
People who want to make
A matter of life and death.
©Rasagya Kabra, November 17, 2011