An entry for the ‘Poetry Prize Awards ’20 ~ People’s Choice Awards’.
It is true that none can escape the tribulations fated.
However, etched in stone… it was not.
From the womb of earth arose little nestlings, and to the womb dejectedly they returned.
For crushed by our decayed notions was the future of which they dreamt.
Signs of the impending tragedy, although, apparent were disregarded.
Considered trivial by us it was ignored and neglected.
Unheeded went the warnings – the auguries as aloud as the shrieks of the banshees.
Unheard went the screeches and the cries.
Overlooked were the evilest of the omens they forebode!
Overlooked were the allusions; the presages,
of our unknowing mistakes,
shoving a generation to take the plunge
… to commit a suicide …
The pervading wails of parents,
their screams, their cries.
Their souls writhing, ever despondent.
Ever forlorn, ever sombre.
As their eyes sung an endless lament.
A threnody for their children deceased… a dirge.
Ubiquitous was the distressed beseeching,
and murmurs of orisons,
however, scarcely consoling.
The susurrus of melancholic laments,
pleading and imploring,
for peace… for the return of evanesced bliss.
Austere were the rays of the daystar – glistening ethereally.
As majestic as ever.
Eternal and forever.
The ambery tears dried for ages past,
soundlessly seething for the grave that was not the last.
The dewy breeze despairingly tranquil.
Irenic and grieving.
A howling presence present without fail.
The shroud of inclement chill.
The freezing wind, turbulent and weeping.
Trees – the beings of eons old.
Changing with the seasons.
Florid, verdant, umber and gold.
It’s roots earthed in the deepest depths; it’s crown high in welkin, a vital beacon.
Standing erect was it’s body; once liberated and bold,
now shackled by torment and racking at the harrowing visions –
A bouquet of sorrow,
in dismal bloom.
Yore, now and morrow,
petals of blossoming gloom.
Budding weeds overgrown,
on the sepulchre of doom…
Those cheerful chuckles,
resounding farther than ever.
Those beguiled spectral smiles,
of sons and of daughters.
Those slayed gleeful giggles,
and lost laughter reverberating evermore.
of those naive little strangers.
Seared by worldly stresses and teared by societal pressures.
Submerged by the feelings of inadequacy and enveloped by despair.
Cradled by sorrows,
and embraced by fears…
The quintessence of youthful joyousness,
masked by pain.
Infused with dwindling happiness,
were those haunting strains.
Shards of triste amassed,
as blithe shattered into doleful rain.
Of life they were tired.
With no hope of being acquitted…
So, they did not wait to be fired.
No. They quitted!
From their flesh charred,
their souls they extricated.
Their sorrows coiled their nape,
as they breathed their last breath.
Their flowing sanguine,
soaking the ground beneath – an insignia of a crimson death.
And on their bodies draped,
the wrenching tears of their parents in an adorning wreath.
They must have flailed
to stay afloat.
They must have struggled.
They must have cried a lot.
They must have tried and tried
to reach out to us, to make us see, to make us understand…
But what went amiss?
Did we turn a blind eye when they were falling apart?
Their pain, did we dismiss?
Under the worldly training, did we suffocated their exuberance?
Their worries, did we overpass?
In us, did they lost their confidence?
When did the scales turn unfortunate?
For a generation to have departed?
For them to have buckled.
Were we too negligent to provide them support?
Were we too self-absorbed to prevent them… from committing a suicide?
Did we fail to provide them comfort?
All they needed was some empathy but all they received was apathy.
Maybe a realisation of self-worth,
would have saved them from choking on self-pity.
Maybe all they required from us was a bit of understanding, some encouragement… perhaps a sprinkle of mirth.
Maybe they would have grasped an extended hand, a withy.
And just maybe their laughter would still be resonating in the murth…
But now for evermore our souls will sing a litany of maybes.
As those blooming buds,
have received a deathful kiss.
Akin to the fugacious petals,
those little strangers,
have drifted into the everlasting void of coruscating memories.
A land of joy; a land from which they birthed,
metamorphosed into a land of tears; a land wherein they were buried…
A land suffocating with silent screams; drearily aglow with wisdom immemorial but lost brilliance.
Sorrowful secrets residing in the lap of mother nature; obscured from the world and closely enveloped.
Gleaming chest besprinkled by flowery moonstones; one and all swaying to mornful tunes.
For the spirit unyielding did yielded; as in it’s tender bosom lay carrion of beings enfeebled.
From the womb of earth arose little nestlings, and to the womb dejectedly they returned – freeing their souls to once again be true…
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