The Others
Part II
II
More pages were turned, and the story
Still made no sense to dirty ears, more
Receptive to the wind outside howling.
Dry winter leaves from oak trees falling
Flaming red and fading green, unaware
Of the faint shades of difference in their
Exquisite final colours, asked "Oh, is it
The end?" and it wasn't seeing the pit
In which they were meant to get burnt
That made them quiver and wonder,
And it wasn't the wind that made them surrender
And, rather than fall down, fall asunder.
It was something in the air, returning,
The echo of an ethereal voice, yearning
For extensive perception, taking it's time.
Loo's voice,
Speaking in verses that did not rhyme,
Did not mean to entertain, but to correct,
_A mission assigned to an idle intellect_
What in her eyes was wrong, persuaded
She was wise enough to rightly judge.
But how fed up is one with the judgers!
And how at odds is one with the others!
And how lost and star-crossed and frail
Are the heroes in every unfair tale!
I shall succeed tomorrow if today I fail;
That was one refrain meant for replay,
And when replayed, it smirked, mocking
The duel of man's will vs. God's, turning
Many tomorrows into wasted yesterdays.
Knowing God's laws, Loo knew the ways
_With knowledge never put into practice_
Of the right broken road one needed to fix;
One among the others, other than herself.
She was busy fixing the thing on the shelf:
The broken thing we call faith.
YOU ARE READING
The Others
Poetry"They deceived us, and deceived themselves, the quiet-voiced elders, bequeathing us merely a receipt for deceit." said Loo, feeling almost all-knowing, almost sorry, once she reached the end of Four Quartets, wondering when her story shall begin. An...
