Poem by Dr. Jernail Singh ANAND
THE FESTIVAL OF FIRE
(AN ODE TO AGE)
Then came a moment,
When it was not possible to repair the cart,
It was consigned to a corner
And waited for the festival of fire.
Some part of it which the fire
Would not drink,
The iron which ran through its woodcraft
Was consigned off to the junkdealers.
And, this way, the cart
Which the roads found too jerky,
And the luggage, too porous,
Was given an unceremonious exit.
No one wept for it, nor remembered
how thorugh thick and thin,
this cart had moved in sun and shade,
And weathered shower and storm.
And how it had been decorated for festivals
And how, through the dread of night
It carried its passengers
Over to safety.
Its wood and even its iron bars
Would be recast in a distant foundry,
And rebuilt into a new body,
A new cart, new loads,
New orbits, but the same old destiny.
Of being discarded when the roads
Find it too jerky,
And the luggage, finds it too porous.
When wind passes through the holes
And sand, through the fingers.