When the song of life is played,
None remains untouched.
Few meet as a single soul,
Few parts on lonely route,
Few form our companion,
Few are in sync for future note.
Few revamp at other juncture,
Few recede at slightest glance.
Few long for grace,
And few lost in grave.
But none can truly overlook,
What went before the makeover?
Sheer revisit to the bygone,
Shall reveal the truth,
Memory is always weaved,
With the trail traversed.
2 comments:
Upon reading this, I envisioned a quilt made up of patches of memories carefully and meticulously sewn together to make a comfortable covering of memories.
short but sweet...what a poetic start..when the song of life is played, none remain untouched...u must try ur hand in short stories da..u weave words beautifully...
cheers
D
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