The Cradle and the Grave
From the every drop of flame, A lifeless river gets ignited. Nature blows the life. Then, winding through the mist covered paradise, Cradling a long in the heights of milky mountains, The voyage of small glacier begins. Accelerating in its early days, Soon, accompanied by mates, The glacier turns bigger and wider. It must flow, For the march of time is an undeniable truth. From the steep hills, Sloppy terrains, And the dark woods, Paving its own way, At the cost of holy days graced with clean ice, The matured and muddled river flows. Someone irrigates, Someone boats and feels refreshed. Someone dams. Sometimes praised for being serviceable, Sometimes cursed for destruction. Who knows the lines drawn, On the palm of its hand? No! Nature can't be desecrated, It must breed the younger ones, Thus, the canals are separated. Each of them hurls on a new voyage, Paving their own way. Polluted during the voyage, The old and retired river seek purgatory. Flowing silently with a heavy heart, To find a bigger home, Staggering, stalking It finally completes its voyage, And mingles itself in the sea, that is its coffin. The life swung from the cradle, But the earth has always been the grave.