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Sorrow
a noun,
yet universal,
all-encompassing.
There is no house
where its echo hasn’t rung,
no heart
it has left untouched.
Still, people roam about
hiding behind faint smiles,
pretending to slip free
from sorrow’s grip.
Sorrow
it wears no form,
no lines,
no colors, no ornaments.
It never arrives alone
it drags tears in its wake,
fills the chest
with darkness.
And if one is born in sorrow
and dies in sorrow
what is life worth then?
The ocean of sorrow
must be churned;
out of it a hymn may rise
out of it gems and rubies
may flash their light.
Then you yourself
can laugh at sorrow,
mock it—
“vve… vve… vve…”
Image © Varala Anand |
