The Tradition of Decay

Nothing lasts in nature
not trees
not tradition
neither greatness
nor the smallness of men.

Why even the sky
on some days stands trial
as if wanting to fall
in the lap of the earth…

Each day life grows
quieter
less senseless
more heart.

The clock still ticks
as a child stands taller
when measured against the wall
but all haste has flown the hands
a sweet rhythm chimes
in its place
as if crooning ‘peace…peace’.

Such transience pervades
all conversations are weary
And so I wonder
who am I to you
and who are you to me?

Have we ever known each other
what’s the need
Are we not lone travellers
on long journeys to nowhere
for whatever be our quest
it doesn’t lie out there.

Everything is dying
decaying piece by piece
its etched in the pattern
the design
of the dead
pick a limp leaf
from the ground
and see…

nothing lasts in nature
not trees
not tradition.