Red

Dried, brittle leaves,

helpless, 'unprotesting', dead

washed away recklessly

by ruthless imprudent wind

withering on the way,

giving up to decay,

living up to debris though;

leaving midrib to tell a tale;



well, this is not my tale.

i am

a red kite, alive.

feather-like weightless paper screen

striving against formidable wind

that fills space and beyond

and a string that weighs even less.

but no distress,

because

it's a string of hope and perseverance.

the harder the wind,

higher the flight.

but knowing within

that it would be an end

without the wind .



my eyes close

letting soul to surface.

a beating heart

that pumps blood and truth ,

gives me a red dye coat.

pure, bright red

in contrast

with the grey dust of the 'uninnocent' world.

as the wind bombards ,

my mind records

that my red fades

and a grey shade

slowly forms a facade.



i peruse the space around, afraid :

a grey pool of red kites indeed

but not all of them still red

but that will not retard

my flame and my red.



the closed eyes open from below

from the earth valley

and i see myself flying far above

telling a short never-ending story.



my eyes fixed on to me

immobile, straining to perceive

i try to realise my ground,

which is now a misty cloud.

i look down

a yonder.

i see myself -

a protesting red raft

fighting against

the fierce grey sea.

raft , borne by the sea ,

yet torn apart by the very sea ;

but will not be thwart.

waves engulfing the wet wood ;

raft unyielding;

noisy ,

never-ending .



the restless raft protests .

the picture mutes out .

the promising note remains .



i see myself

closer

in silence

that speaks sense.



i am a thick drop of oil paint

in a palette

whose bottom is unseen

due to the overflowing, dilute, impure grey

that is labouring its way

into penetrating the homogeneous red

from top

sides

and all around.

the red shines

its last shimmer of hope

faintly through

the puddled way to the observing eyes ,

knowing that somewhere deep down

the inevitable grey has taken reign ;

yet, does not refrain .



my eyes disapparate ;

and apparate into myself

only to close again.

now, they open to face the grey world,

as the real me .

the kite, the raft ,

the oil paint.

but never a dead leaf, waft .

though sometimes letting life to push ,

pushing back at life , undeterred,

preserving the red .







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