A poem should be soundless as the flight of birds...A poem should be equal to not true....A poem should not mean but be.


| |

With a heavy heart she crossed the bridge
Her bag laden with gold and a pouch of seeds
She bid her homeland goodbye
Took a step to an unknown land
She wanted to explore and see their lives
A long walk until she found a land
Settled there to make a home away from home
She made new friends, found New Hope
Shared her gold as a token of love
Until one day she finished her gold
With empty bags and a pouch of seeds
Her friends threw her out of her home
Forsaken by her new found hope
She retrieved her steps back to the bridge
The bridge was broken by a storm
Once more she turned her back to her homeland
The pouch of seeds her only hope
Fate had given her chance again
To sow the seeds of culture
She reached a no man’s land
Sowed the seeds over the field
Patiently waited for the trees to grow
Years passed by but her hope didn’t fail
The trees of culture grew tall and beautiful
She knew now her trees would yield
The fruits of labour and the time gone by
The roots of heritage penetrated the soil
Making her hope even stronger
She took shelter under her tree
Built her home in a no man’s land
She grew old as the days passed by
Relaxed and contented
That the roots of her tree
Would bind the soil
Her tree would always yield
Fruits of her perseverance and hope
Even long after she dies.


Post a Comment

More Poems

Country-wise Number of Visitors

free counters


Know About Me

Dinita Rai
J P Sharma Road