Destiny

What happens to the bird,

That the magician sets free?

None actually cares,

Whether it’s caged afterward.

 

Blessed we are with destiny,

Utter the religions,

Soft as cotton, hard as steel,

But otherwise the notion is in certain human psyche.

 

As is kept the fads on the move by nature’s gulp of air,

Be it a busy leaf, an idle piece of paper,

Or the tiny dusts,

In the hands of fate mere puppets we are!

 

The thoughts soon breathe their last,

Paving the way for the nascent ones to be born,

Hitherto abortive the brains remain like a dead machine,

In the endeavour to make out the route.   

 

Such vague and patent His modus operandi is,

Oedipus himself fell short to comprehend,

And like the Aesopian hare was beaten,

Yet saw he the best losing the corporal eyes.