I stood at the edge of the precipice
and looked at the meadows below
but didn’t see lush greens or rich browns,
I only saw shades of the dullest grey
and wondered if I should plunge
and let that fog of despair enwrap me
and have its victory.
After all, I’ve never lived; I’ve only existed.
But some otherworldly force of inspiration
seized me, and said, “There’s still time to
fashion an armor of triumph from the slivers of
broken dreams.” And I listened and walked back.
But as I did, I considered the infinitude of
possibility versus the finitude of what one can do
and that weighed on me. I realized that even if
given the tools to paint a dreamlike forest,
complete with Leprechauns, goblins and fairies,
ageing hands will never finish the project, and so,
I returned to the cliff edge. I still stand there
waiting for the heavens to part and the saints
to ascend, or the eagle’s cry of “Woe!” Or for peak
experiences with ‘hurrahs,’ and ‘hallelujahs,’ or
locusts from Abaddon’s abyss to sink their
teeth into my flesh, but my shadow is the only
thing that greets me.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2020)