if this were the last poem i write
(for there will always be one
which by choice, design or fate
will one day be that one),
would i still sing the same song
that my words have always sung,

would i happily raise a toast
to this journey of umpteen heartbeats
which beat passionately throughout
irrespective of the prevailing weather, 
giving solace in the silences
the senses often absorbed like a sponge,
 
would i write about the bittersweet 
sense of satisfaction
as i look at the image in the mirror,
a work still in progress 
yet complete in the moment
like an unfinished poem 
with a completed last verse,

would i write about the light 
which often streamed in like magic 
through all the melancholic clouds,
to fall down my exposed skies 
like little crystals of shiny 
rejuvenating raindrops, 

would i write about how darkness
often blurred the eyes, 
but sometimes also brought 
a peaceful silence within 
which gently pacified
all the shrill noises emanating
from the marrow in the bones,

would i write about how water
rejuvenated me in every way it exists,
a dewdrop, a teardrop, a raindrop, 
a trickle, a flow, a sip, a gulp, 
and sometimes in the ecstatic way
of an almost forgotten breath
whenever i happened to find 
myself with the sea,

would i write about the untethered bond
between the sky and the earth,
and unabashedly attempt to add 
to its essence,
and raise it to an even higher level 
by comparing it to a you and i
as being one and the other,

would i write about the tree
which lovingly always gave refuge,
stayed strong beside me 
like an inseparable friend
irrespective of the punishing winds 
which often shook it down to its roots, 

would i write about my affection 
and my gratitude towards them 
that held me close irrespective of often having
to extend beyond the boundaries of their own comfort levels,
about my admiration for the completeness 
of those generous beings
whom i learnt to see and value
from the tips of their budding new leaves
to the ends of their deep roots, 

would i think of including the past
which really doesn't matter anymore,
or would i write about a future
which will probably give me a miss,
or would i happily in the moment 
count all my remaining teeth 
and smile like i've never smiled before,

would i in conclude this journey 
by marring my own words with words,
and say that in the end
actions do always speak louder
than all conveniently proclaimed intentions 
or the songs of the heart, of love 
professed and sung under the starry night skies
of beautifully laid out words,

who knows, 
maybe i'd write it all if it were my last,
but maybe it isn't, 
and maybe therein, in this ethereal uncertainty 
lies the fun of it all,
and so, 
while the devils and the gods, on earth and above
play their games, their tug of wars,
i'll just pour myself a glass of wine
sit, sip, and enjoy 
this uncertainty
by writing 
nothing at all.

© vidursahdev 2022

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