Grass on Fire. Why?

People asked me why I left blogging even though Nabadip’s Blog used to receive a size-able number of hits and a jolly good number of followers. I said, my blog, my writers’ block, my headache, my lack of time. Suck it.

However, a time comes when you realize that you are only fooling yourself when the answer of the most commonly asked question to you is “Suck It. “

And thus it happened that I decided to stop fooling around and put some of my useless time to good use by writing nonsense that could make sense if you believe in the fact that sense is hidden in nonsense. Well, whatever.

Grass on fire can thus be described as a very humble attempt to write what comes in the head of an idiot.

So here I am again. While I decide what to write in this space, and how to go about it, I would like to start with this poem taken from my previous blog.  Not because I believe its’ excellent, but because I believe you will never finish it and therefore not judge me!

Here goes!

****************************************************

THE TRAVELER

His face was dry from the sun,
And his shoes were all filled with dirt.
But he sang to himself as he traveled,
Along the dusty long road,
For though he was poor, he was happy,
And the smile on his dry lips showed.

He whistled a tune, when his mouth went dry,
His throat too sore to sing.
Still happiness pooled in his heart,
Like a crystal clear spring.
Miles he walked, as the day grew bright,
Following the sun to the west.
With his sack on his back, he traveled on,
Though his young legs begged for rest.

The sun rose high, it was nearly noon,
So deciding to stop for a bit,
Under the shade of a banyan tree,
He took off his pack to sit.
The moment his burdens hit the dust,
An old woman stepped into sight.
So suddenly had she appeared,
She gave the young man a fright.

Her back was bent, her fingers too,
And her hair all fray.
The scarf on her head, was mended and patched,
And bleached by the suns hot ray.
It was clear to the young man, she could do him no harm,
So he bent and touched her dry feet,
“Mother” he said, “From where have you come.
And with what fine pleasure we meet?”

“I have come a long way.”
The old woman replied, “And I’ll go even further ahead,
But shoes, I need, for these feet are bare,
And I’ve walked till they have bled.”

The young man looked at the old woman’s feet,
Then at his old ragged shoes,
Slipping them off, he placed them in front
Of the elderly feet that were bruised.
“Mother” he said, “Take them in trade for the blessing I need for this day,
For I too have a long way to go ahead,
And a prayer I will need for my way.
The old woman smiled, as she slipped on the shoes,
Then turning she hobbled away.
The young man watched, till her shadow was gone,
And burned by the heat of the day.

The traveler sighed, then barefoot he sat,
In the cool spot beneath the big tree,
He leaned on the trunk, took off his hat,
And sat the pack on his knee.
His young back hurt, his stomach growled,
So he loosened the strings of his sack.
Knowing little was left inside,
But he needed now a snack.

As he looked, in his bag, his cracked hands shook,
He couldn’t believe what he saw,
For what was held, inside his pack,
Filled him with great awe.
The young man rose, dropping his bag,
Stunned he stumbled back,
For gold and jewels, diamonds and coins,
Lined each stitch of his sack,

“What is this” the traveler yelled,
Wondering about this trick.
He kicked the bag, picked up a branch,
And hit it with the stick!
The tattered bag let loose it’s load,
Jewels scattered around,
Golden coins glistened bright,
Sparkling from the ground.

Half in shock, the young man stood,
A kings wealth at his feet,
A child’s laugh, sang the words
” With what fine pleasure we meet? “
There before him, dressed in white,
A stately woman smiled,
Though her braided hair was gray,
She looked as if a child.

Not single a patch or hole,
Yet the traveler knew her face,
His shoes were there, upon her feet,
Though looking out of place.
The young man stared, at the change,
For now she looked not weak,
She bowed her head, smiled again,
And then began to speak,
“A blessing asked, is a blessing received,
Now traveler, go your way”
With many long years, live your life,
In happiness I pray”

She picked up the treasure, tied the bag tight,
And handed the young man the sack,
Turning around, she hobbled away,
Never looking back.
The traveler did live, for many long years,
With many blessings of life.
He built a house, started a school,
And made a young teacher his wife.
When his children would sit upon his knee,
Where he had opened the sack.
He’d teach them of happiness,
The happiness you hold in your heart,
When you give, and don’t dwell on lack.
“A blessing given, is a blessing received”
And in his heart our traveler smiled,
As the sun set down for the day.

 

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