My Broodings

By Ishan Jadhav

Sickness sometimes forces us to dig a well,

Deeper within us , in those hours of idleness,

From which we draw water,

When the land of our wisdom is bone dry,

Many visions we see in that state,

Many a visitors from the fantasies' gate,

Which furnish us with hope and strength,

And sit by our side when the thunder roars,

In our flask – patience it pours,

At that time we neither know man nor night,

Which can shake us more in agony,

But only self and hope is the light,

That can propell us ,

Towards the uncharted road, which stretches ahead of us,

When, motionless I lie on the bed,

My thoughts swaying towards the cosmos,

Two beings take their place beside the bed,

A hawk on one side and a worm on the other,

After sickness has unfolded it’s arms around me,

Will I fly like the hawk? Higher than the clouds?

Or retract from my former self ?

Creeping like some worm in the mud,

To be crushed anytime by fate.

The worm must be crushed in the mind,

Before it manifests itself in my body,

Such filthy worms, rise from a neglected well,

A well from which springs - poison as well,

For this reason , I have come to believe,

That my well of ideas must be dug,

By my own hands,

So that its water , is unadulterated by unjust opinions,

Or by false truths,

So that I can the drink the pure water,

In the face of a tragedy which destiny throws in my way.

By Ishan Jadhav