Yash Kamath
12 – A
The white horse that stood by the side,
Made a small noise, seldom,
As he silently drank.
At the base of his hoof,
It was no spoof,
Stood a pool of red.
Thinking as he could,
But not, did he wonder;
As they stood afar, yonder,
Why could they not be like him,
Instead of filling the well of sin.
The white hare by the pool-side sighed,
Nimble and agile,
He sought to educate the four footed fool’s mind,
“The deeds you must never question,
For you they have no repercussion;
You must be tired, o tetraped,
Have your drink and go to bed.”
A white tiger from the bushes leaped,
Not on the hare, nor on the horse,
But into the pool being discussed.
“For my dinner I’ll have you neither,”
He said, drinking the thick, shiny liquid,
You can rest assured,
There is no danger,
The order of the master,
Saves you from my hunger.”
“Well then, my friend,”
The horse replied,
“Being this, a proper end;
Please tell us about this order,
That has freed us of our bother.”
“As my words are, the order was,
Though purer, truer and ever wonderful,
And pay attention while I repeat,
What it was that the master did speak;
Being in words,
The order did state,
Of the straight up hate,
The mud that filled the sky,
And the land, left to die.”
“The words do seem wise,
Scaled and balanced they seem,
Nor do they speak from hubris,
O tigris.”
“Yes, they are, dear hare,
But incomplete they stand,
For then the master spake,
Of the world from birth to quake.
He told of the pool of red,
And of Mother Nature’s fine thread.
Direct, he was not, but he did speak,
With such a conviction, as I dare not repeat.
It is with this that he bade me farewell,
Asking me to quench my desires at this well.”
“The master spoke true,
His words I do understand,
And the order,
It must go as planned.”
And with these words the horse declared,
His undeterred loyalty and faith,
In the master’s plan.
“While moving here, I met him again,
And he reminded me, of my prey’s pain.
He taught me a world not with disharmony,
Free from perils and pains,
Was the one which could truly gain.
His audience, he said, was the greatest privilege,
To me, or to anyone, fallen astray.
“Pulling me from the easy path,
From the blood bath;
He told me, the right one,
Is where I don’t gain, from someone else’s pain.”
“Indeed it seems right, o feline,
But don’t you feel, that the line’s clichéd?”
“Of course, my dear hare,
Run over and over again, the words might have,
But they carry the same necessity,
Work the same meaning,
And wish to fill,
The same deep dark void.
The words may sound clichéd,
To those who think they think,
Better than the one who made.”
The hare turned askew, ashamed.
The shiny fur of the creature,
Spread brilliant, the bright, beautiful rays from the sun.
A glint of light,
Tried to fly away,
But was caught by the tiger’s eye,
Making the big cat smile.