written by: Charlie Bottle
Some live on lofty heights,
building empires of desires,
like the Stonehenge,
the future inquires its purpose.
Bent in paddy fields,
picking tender shoots,
transplanting again and again,
ever see her hands in your plates of rice?
Weighed by a heavy wicker basket,
she picks leaves and tosses them,
time and again over her shoulder,
ever see her face in your cups of tea?
A meandering quiet river makes no music,
its unimpeded current moves in strong silence,
no hasty murmurs, a pace, a pace, a pace.
silently it makes its way to the sea.
Does the warbling brook know the music it makes?
or the water hurriedly rushing past the rocks,
or the rocks that impede its flow hear,
as it stymies the brooks haste to flow into the stream?
The poet sits on the shores of time,
sees and hears it all,
the hands, the faces, the light,
the fire, the water and the music of life.