Victorius’ s letter to his parents
Day: Sunday; every man yearns for this day.
On such a day, an Earthly man with his hair rolled into a bun,
Listens to old songs from his computer,
And with much ease, plucks the words from his thoughts
And imprisons them forever on a paper, using a pen.
Eight months have passed.
The residents of minus 273 Zero. C. Street
Would await eagerly to hear the news from Victorius.
The postman would ring, and grandpa would rush to the gate,
And the letter would be opened and the river of
happiness will thus flow.
Simple pleasures invoked.
Victorius’s studies is nearly finished.
He has applied for jobs in England.
Here it is important to remember the Universe:
Shall thou perform the duty, not’ye expect results.
The notion of cause and effect is a myth.
One can save on sorrow a bit perhaps.
He left home in 1993 and since then 23 years have passed.
Adults have become grandparents;
young adults have become husbands and wives.
Life is a journey.
Life is a drama.
Life is merely 100 years long.
If we can keep aside our sorrow, and try to be happy everyday,
Our journey might also be a pleasurable one too.
One must breathe poetry and fall in love
with one and only: poetry.
Then perhaps the world would be a saner place
So writes Wordsworth:
Whither is fled the visionary gleam?
Where is it now, the glory and the dream?
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar:
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From ‘star dust’ (Wordsworth actually wrote God),
who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!