The wind howls gently outside the window, as if mindful of the flashbacks to come. Rustling leaves, coupled with mercury inching earthward set the tone, the pace, the ambience, the race.
Pictures flash, videos play,
Like a collage, like a mosaic,
Lips move and teeth gleam,
Time stands still, so does the zodaic.
He walks among the past,
Bittersweet till the last,
But no wind can make this fast,
Not the owls nor the green grass.
He was a father, a son, a disciple,
He was the listener, adviser,
Words were minimal,
Actions spoke more,
The twitching of the ear.
Every friend that we make,
A part of our heart is given.
And we slowly die away.
Every friend that is made,
We gain the whole world,
Or so we say.
The boy climbed the mountains,
And peered down amidst the fluffy clouds,
Turned to his left and asked the flaming bush,
What is treasure?
That which cannot be bought or sold,
That which fools regret,
That which cannot be measured, weighed, packaged,
That which is not food but satisfies,
That which is not water but quenches,
That which is you.
