Hariom Tripathi

And yet


They write about me,

They muse about me,

They anticipate my arrival,

And they also hold opinions of my arrival.


Sometimes they hate my advent,

At times they also celebrate my return,

And occasionally my arrival is of little importance in their monotonous lives.


I bring joy to their little one’s,

I give life to everything.

I fill their lakes,

And I fill their rivers.


I do all of this and yet I do none for them.


I am made up of insignificantly small drops and yet I hold the power to level everything.

I flood their homes and their fields,

I drown every creature young and old,

I tear down vast woodlands and demolish magnificent cities,

As I become the flow of the rivers and the lakes that I filled.


I do all of this and yet none to them.


For I hold neither grudge nor any affection for any of them,

I give life and I take life since that is the purpose of my existence.


I fall gently and life spreads,

I ride a gale and there is death,

I burn to the sky and become a white patch in the blue stretch,

Many white patches together become “I” again.

I freeze and become floating white flake,

At times I also became stone translucent.


I do so much and become so many,

And yet I do none for any.


I seem cruel as if toying with mortals, but my absence is also death.

However, their judgements are of very little significance to me.

For they shall perish but I am immortal.


I’m passionless and yet not to them,

But everything.

To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.