Life is a block of wood; a carver models it into the best but at an old age-when one becomes perfectly experienced. Every drills and grills is a tick of torment to life. It gashes to a perfectly imperfect time of life. And we start over again in next life.
A carver lost in chiseling the wood;
Modeling it into the finest,
He himself carefully carves into.
As I look on him,
And my life rolls down:
The creaks of sculpting a block
While removing jarring angles
Etch a torment.
Are those pains impasses of life?
Life mills to live,
It’s a fume out of crumble and splinter.
Every bit a loss and gain!
This act recurs,
And flusters like the hollow wood resonant.
On a course;
There is no sojourn to emotive and bodily fidgets.
Often, the disquiet chronic writ large on mark;
The happiness or silence-hung grim all around
They were free of beginnings or ends,
They unfold in myriad ways,
One likes to live a life, careless and free,
But the player lot is on the line;
Come to clutches with it, be slaves of it.
These forms to befit a good mortal
Like the crafter fits the pieces
Yet, this good human is qualified
When at old age is unqualified,
And ends very near like a child,
Then falls bodily asleep.
How many times we hear creaks?
How many times we crumble and splinter?
How many times are we milled?
To hope for?
We never are finest how many times?
As novice anew voyage embark
And get down to chiseling all over again,
To slice life in the life of a new beginning!