Perspectives

By Joel Doni Chirappurathu

When the Oak does fall from its ancient hole,

When time does prance like an innocent little foal.

“Oh, Wisdom is dead,” the bystanders cry,

“The foal is long lost; it is going to die.”

But why does the sun then shine again?

Why do we hear again the songs of the wren?

The foal will go far, it could reach robes or rags

But wherever it goes, it will return a Stag.

Fickle it is, this gamble of life,

Whether a dance with wonder, or war to the knife.

Many will place their bets; some won’t win a dime,

In the end, the only winner, rich with history, is time.

Keep from the thought that you are a god

You will learn to face both soft hands and the rod.

So have cheer, weary Traveller; all is not lost

The body will keep growing, but keep the mind from frost

By Joel Doni Chirappurathu