Autobiography of a Droplet
Swiveling around the tornado’s core,
Devastating a low-lying Mediterranean shore,
Busy he was, composing the demolish-lore,
Standing tall, the size of a sponge’s pore.
Imbibed in from the West Wind, they say,
She was curvy and glossy in her day(s),
Spell-bounded, by her charm, he lay,
Sensations in his heart, he never could portray.
Congregating his emotions, he took the first step,
Stunned at the outset, in ecstasy, she wept,
On a white Caribbean cloud, the atmosphere was pep,
As they tied the knot, pledged vows to be kept.
It was a chilled-out shivering windy night,
The cloud, they say was no longer white,
A thunderous flash, and there was light,
What followed for them, was the end of flight.
They collated, a consequence of the latter,
And dropped down, way on a rocky matter,
What seemed like another splitter-splatter,
Rendered them into tiny shatter(s).
Amidst those showers, that deafening burst,
Budding from the shatters, I breathed my first,
Soaked up by the mighty rock to quench his thirst,
Clutching onto mum’s back, not it was the worst.
Days of percolation down the livid alley,
Squeezing in and out, for the perfect tally,
On a rowdy terrain reminiscent of a rally,
Conclusively footing, on the foot of the valley.
Gushing out of a thin crevice, much of a fight,
Out of the gloom, much there was light,
Canopy above, Rocks underneath, majestic sight,
Uncertainty in every step, a tentative plight.
As the falls came, dad’s grasp entrenched trust,
Fumbling and Tumbling over the rocks’ crust,
The descending push, the ascending thrust,
Day in, night out, continuity was a must.
When abruptly, the vibrations they fade,
The vivacious blue, turned the perilous jade,
Hush before the storm, tranquility before the raid,
Triggered by the murky winds, the flow strayed.
Came the ruthless Niagara, the flow became turbulent,
Turmoil and Commotion, in the winds that were silent,
Harmony and order, turned chaotically belligerent,
To merge with the mist above, some of us did bent.
Lucky ones they were, rose up towards the unflustered sky,
Under the sweltering sun, in a reservoir, we were left to dry,
Got separated from my folks, had barely a moment to cry,
As to a pipeline I made my way, entitled “City water Supply”.
Mystically spontaneous, a flow it was,
Without a hustle, or a transformational pause,
Evolve, it did, for the shoddier cause,
Ridiculously monotonic, with a no-return clause.
Traversing across pipelines, one valve to another,
From flush-tanks, the appalling flows, did bother,
Stead of letting free, they recycled rather,
The caged bird I am, with a missing feather.
Hope, is a good thing, the best of things,
I hope to break out of these vicious rings,
Moisten the golden sand, as the white wave sings,
