The wind will never whisper some stories
The stones will rather quietly bury them,
The creepers won't let them grow alongside
And so the ethereal sea must drown them.
Thus these stories fly over the arch of a feather;
A white insignificant little blunder,
That flows delicately, tentatively in the air.
It whirls and flits to the melody of its own magic,
And smiles at whoever would bother to notice.
But sometimes it lands over your shoulder;
As afraid as a gazelle stopped by her hunter.
You gaze at its beauty, at its innocent surrender,
Your eyes brim with tears, your fingers lift to console;
And then, without any trepidation, you just brush it off.
For these stories were never meant to be told,
Never meant to be written of, or to be portrayed.
They are only meant to ride such stray feathers,
And float meaninglessly in mid-air despite harsh weather.
Yet once in a while some stretch their hands;
Giving the sanguine feather a haven to rest.
They cherish these stories and for their sake,
They fight, try something new, but they fail,
And their effort itself has to find yet newer feathers to sail.
But these feathers are fuelled by hope itself
And hope is a strange thing, my friends.
It beguiles these clumsy feathers to be elegant,
And so they fly again, these feather-tales.
Maisha Nazifa Kamal is on a highly confidential mission to defeat all Muggles in procrastination. Join forces with her on email@example.com