RIVERS DO DRY BUT THEY NEVER DIE

 

In monsoon, the days of better rainfall,

It would flood through valleys,

Villages, small towns and cities.

It washed over the garden walls,

And nearby shops.

And when it was winter,

It froze, and you could skate for miles,

That’s how the river in my city lies.

When its the time to go,

Not here but there,

It was a beautiful disused route to the sea,

Before going there the river smiled at me.

It was a fish path with no fish in it.

A flowing river went to dry,

“Now what will happen next?”, said me

And did a cry.

It was like water forgot to flow.

It took my breath away,

The whole water went out,

And became empty.

The river dried up the same day,

And I couldn’t do anything to save it,

So, I still thought of poetry.

The flowing river has now become

Very small and damaged and quite dry,

Very eroded and faded, Exhausted,

Cracked and whimpering,

Very endangered now.

No voice but a clearing rustle

As of little distant sound of dry grass.

Little hobbling, tripping of a nearly dried-up river,

Little sucked thin low-burning glint of stones.

Rivers are also known as stream,

Flowing to the ocean deep.

Where the river was flowing,

Now lies every moment still,

In its dry up of nowhere going.

And the sky has become blue,

But still no more water coming through.

But a dried river looks old and dry,

Sky’s clouds are drifting by.

For every foliage to fulfill,

Dried up sprinkling life giver,

All you irrigate is now gone.

In these instant breeze shiver,

Carrying no water cycle on and on.

There is some point in our life,

When things get rough,

And also tough.

Like rivers, soon it will dry.

Neither it stays permanent,

Nor it stays forever.

Everything has an end,

Maybe today, or maybe not yet.

But as a river dries up,

There is something, a cause to it.

Something that is blocking it source,

Or something that has cut its connection.

But you can still find a way,

Like a river all dried up,

Water, it stills finds its way.

From here or there,

From the hot, dry and barren land,

It will struggle its way back,

Until it doesn’t reach.

The river did not give up,

Even after drying,

And it still didn’t die.

-TULIKA TIWARI