Yet another monsoon – the skies appear bluer, flowers,more vibrant with color. But this time I noticed something I never paid attention to, the thing which is always there, the thing we take for granted, the thing which just exists. And I decided to give life to it – to the humble green grass – through my words. As I set the pen to paper, my mind wanders off to the time when I was little, the time when I instinctively plucked the grass, whenever in a garden. I guess that habit still persists….
Soothingly green, those thin brittle strands,
I sat there uprooting with my little hands.
Oh, how vile, how wicked, how crass,
Could have I been to trouble the grass!
Infinitely green, by itself it grows,
It’s beauty so sublime, like a wonderful prose.
For the poor grass, is there no one to care,
It’s companions – only the sky and the air.
Splendidly green since it’s very birth,
It fills the aura with humble mirth.
It tells me this while savoring the rain,
“No matter if you are plucked, you can grow again!”
Elegantly green, the grass I sit on,
Feeling it with my palm, unseeing, into the dawn.
Unconscious still, with twigs in my hair,
I perceive the grass with my feet bare.
Slowly my fingers encircle the strands,
Prickly grass again in my hands.
And I know it’s vile, it’s wicked, it’s crass,
Still, I can’t help but pluck the grass!