Of foliage dense and thick,
interspersed with vines,
sunlight peeking through, creating
shadows amidst towering pines.
The cacophony of birds blends with
rippling noises of streams,
in this gargantuan theatre, dormant
lay a tiny seed, a small dream.
A dream, to aim for the skies, just
hidden beyond the leaves,
scraping the mud amidst insects,
shrubs and bushes; it grieves.
What natural order entitled those
around him to glory and him to darkness, he ponders,
gently pushed aside from his milieu by
wind and water, he meanders.
The law of the jungle, hunt or be
hunted,
he could germinate into a shrub, or a
small tree, albeit stunted.
To be the tallest, its fight lay in
the deepest and darkest recesses of grounds,
where he could slug it out, harshly
but fairly, amidst nutrients unbound.
Yet, mother nature benevolent at
times, indulges his fantasies,
innocent seed feels maligned,
insinuated, propagates his fallacies.
Seeking more nutrients and space,
brethren’s ashes he demands,
his tale a folklore, many more such
seeds question, the movement expands.
And so lightning strikes, at the
sturdy old wooden barks, their protectors for ages,
unknowingly, the seeds sever ties, in
their lust for heights, as the fire around them rages.
Consuming everyone alike in its path,
not differentiating friends or foes,
leaving a trail of destruction, fumes,
burnt timber, akin to after east wind blows.
Amidst the falling ashes, the
question shall forever remain,
in their vengeance for heights, what
did those seeds gain?
Their roots embed in those fallen, as
they contemplate the price of their desires,
Unknowingly in their quest for
victory, they lost the foliage itself, to their own forest fire.
©Copyright Darshil A Shastri
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