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IT'S NOT OVER YET
IT'S NOT OVER YET
★★★★★

© DIMITRI MALLIK

Drama

5 Minutes   18.2K    3.3K


Content Ranking

The old poet met her on the dawn–bright lawn

Where the grass grew a gorgeous green.

With emerald eyes, she eyed the sky

And everything beyond the welkin.


Approaching her aged eight self,

He asked in one old and worn out voice,

“Child, why brood here you, when you

Could’ve been with your toys?”


Her limpid gaze, I recall still;

Her voice was harmony in discord.

“There’s so much hatred all around", voiced she,

“Want to know if there’s an existence of God."


At length I watched as they sat and talked

Evoking affection, camaraderie and glee.

The wisdom of calling old age, the second childhood

Was once again made clear to me.


“What’s your favourite colour?” , she asked –

A pool of polyphony in her voice,

And thus the little lady sat right beside him

When she could’ve been with her toys.


The old poet looked up at MY supposed abode

His mouth curving in poignance deep;

“I could tell you the colours I like”, he smiled,

“But you won’t understand that which leaves my lip.”


AND THEN THE POET BEGAN :-


“I love the colour of the crystal rain

That embraces the ecru earth,

And the colour with which each death

Stands compensated by a birth.


I love the colour of the Niagara Falls

When sunbeams through it are shining,

And the indefatigable lilac lily

That withstood the Hiroshima-Nagasaki bombing.


O Child,

I love the colour of the puny pea plant

When through the earth its first leaves shone,

And the celebration of justice and revolution

When each Hitler or Mussolini is overthrown.


I love the colour of the sleepy moonlight

Kissing the frosted window panes,

And the patriotism tinged impassioned blood

Fighting for India’s independence.


I love the colour of the maple, oak forest

Blushing at the onset of fall,

And the wronged East and West Berliners

Breaking the Berlin Wall.


I love the colour of the Aurora Borealis

Cascading through the Polar Night.

I love how the Black, Brown and Yellow

Still fight for equality with the White.


I love the colour of the scarlet lava

Spilling with fiery rage,

And the common consciousness that prevents

A 3rd World War from being waged.


I love the colour of the UN flag

Fluttering proud and high,

And how the reformed insurgents

Renounce their guns without a sigh.


I love the colour of the new

That begins with every ending,

And the colour of the hallowed hope

That raises those that are bending.


I love the colour of humanity

That preserves the human race.

I love...... O dear my child,

Why see I tears on your face?”


“O Sir, don’t stop please!”

She said in a pleading voice,

“I’m right so glad that I’m with you

Instead of being with my toys.


The colours that you call dear

Have coloured my crestfallen mind.

Now I ask, what sounds, scents and touch

Did your favour find?”


The old man’s words brought tears to MY eyes

And the clouds wept with ME.

In the twilight drizzle , they both sat

As the old poet again began to speak.


“ I love the sound of the sea , my dear,

When a storm approaches the shore,

And when a thousand vanquished voices

Resound in a common uproar.


I love the sound of the lovely nightingale

Singing its solitary song,

And when the temple and church bells

Mingle with the Aajan and Buddhist gongs.


I love the sound of the mangoes

Falling in the Kalbaishaki rain,

And how the words of Socrates

Defied a death induced by poison.


I love the sound of the Big Bang

Which created our universe,

And when in its maiden attempt, the Mangalyaan

Roared away towards Mars.


I love the sound of the falling apple

Which helped discover gravity.

O Child! I love how ‘Inquilab Zindabad’

Resounds in Liberty, Equality and Fraternity.


I love the sound of the mountain winds

Caressing the fir and pine cones,

And the voice of Alexander Graham Bell

Speaking through the first telephone.


I love the sound of the sacred chants

Which aim to unite two souls,

And how the supposedly ill-fated Croatians

Cried when Madzukic netted a goal.


I love the sound of the Brahmaputra

Refusing to be checked by a dam,

And how the Cold War and its military blocs

Cowered down before Nehru’s NAM.


I love the sound of the lion’s roar

Befitting the king of the jungle,

And how the cave-trapped 12 Thai boys

Didn’t let their spirits get crumpled.


I love the sound from the infinity scale

That doesn’t entertain the human ear.

I love the sound of ....... O, dear child,

Why rolls down your cheek, a tear?”


“O Old Man, your impelling words

Are as sharply pointed as chisel.

You teach me well through colours and sounds

How good fights to replace the evil.”


The old poet’s words satisfied ME-

It was a satisfaction like no other.

I smiled and the sky smiled with ME , in a

Rainbow beautifying the now clear weather.


AND THE OLD POET CONTINUED –


“I love the scent of the Shiuli flowers,

The jasmines that in the winds wave,

And the children lighting incense sticks

At the Vietnamese mass graves.


I love the taste of the Italian Cappelini,

Swiss chocolate and mauve French grapes,

I love the taste of the Satyagraha, when

Gandhiji fasted for 21 days.


I love the spirit of the refugee teens

Growing up without parental care,

And how the Hong Kong based democracy fighters

Resembled those in Tiananmen Square.


I love the touch of my long-dead mother

Kissing my forehead in my dreams,

And how the mighty ocean seeks forgiveness

At the feet of the tsunami victims.


The old poet rose from his seat

And drew the sweet child close,

“You know, dear girl, this whole wild world

Is very much like a rose.


There’s sweet beauty and dulcet fragrance

And also the pricks and thorns,

But I’m right so glad that I met you;

I’m no longer the erstwhile forlorn.”


I looked down and smiled upon them

As they contentedly parted ways,

I knew that never the child and the poet

Would forget this rendezvous of today.


The little girl went running to her hut

And into the arms of her mother.

“You know”, she said, “I met God today

And HE’s as old as my grandfather.”


Likewise the old man, alone on the roof

Realized the change that had been wrought.

“I’m favoured to have met God in person,”

Said he, “But SHE’s much younger than I thought.”


And I, the CREATOR, laughed merrily away

Watching over MY creation from afar,

While the darkling sky reflected MY laughter

With a billion brilliant stars.


english poem storymirror drama

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