Momowords

Who are we to complain
About our dismal life?
‘Tis simply to shout in vain.
Disappointment, like a knife,
Carelessly tearing through
The canvas of our world.
Why is everyone blind to
The beauty of our pearled
Existence? Such indifference
Is inexplicable
In the short instants
Where life is capable
Of turning left
Instead of right.
It is theft;
Do you not feel contrite
When breathing this air,
Seeing this work of art,
And saying a prayer
Demanding a fresh start?
To think it was one man
Who created such splendour!
Do not look for something more than
What is simply nature.
Coincidence, space, time,
This is our origin.
It is no crime,
Certainly no sin
To not know all
And want to know it now.
For is it not a thrall
To take out your plough
And prepare your mind
To learning with trust
That what makes up mankind
Consists simply of stardust.

Is it not magnificent,
That was given birth
In a corner so insignificant,
This planet called Earth?

The first time you read a book
Is not something you can experience twice.
Abstract ideas take a concrete look
As words are scribbled down, all becomes concise.
The end of a story must not be mourned;
Its very beginning is a celebration!
The excitement should be remembered;
Rush of anticipation,
As your eyes travel across the text,
Drawing up endless alternatives.
What will happen next?
Is that not what life symbolises?
We must celebrate our unawareness of the future
Ignorant of what the next chapter will carry.
Re-reading your favourite book is similar
To looking at an old photograph from your history;
A book is a life – constant thrall.
Books shall always be man’s dearest friend,
For are we not all
Stories in the end?

Why do you no longer laugh?
What happened to my sunshine
Whose ray could light up a path
In my hopelessly lost mind.
Your touch is not as before;
It soothes my worries no more.

Your eyes are full of regret,
I pray I am not its source.
It was not there when we met;
T’was when life took its course
That you lost faith, faith in me,
For this is my tragedy.