To those who Wander

Says the rock:  Time is a tempest wind that gushes through the trees, flooding the river, destroying the villages. It doesn't stop for the people trying to escape, for the dogs that were tied to the poles, for me nor for you. But the birds don't try to stop it, they fly with it. Harnessing the winds with their wings, gracing the skies with their flight. The rocks don't stop the winds either, they stand their ground, taking every slash, every whip and every swing of the objects the wind carries with it. You are a bird, I am a rock. The tempest winds of time have destroyed both our villages. You fly high up in the sky, away from all the wreckage. You go wherever the winds take you. You see it all, the rivers, the mountains, the stars that shine in the night which are not visible from below the clouds. You took flight, like you always were supposed to. But you are blind to the call of your dog tied to the pole. Of the earthen pot on the shelf in your home. The sweet cream of m...

 The usual honking of cars does not reach my ears as I lay awake in my bed. A stillness hangs in the air, a silence surrounds the streets. The air seems somewhat fresher, blowing through the window the maid just threw open. I slowly reach for my glasses. Now the world is truly awake, except not in its usual way. The annoying sound of vehicles is replaced by gleeful shouts of children. The usual chittering of birds is absent. Cold air whooshes through the window, chilling me to my bones even underneath the thick, woolen blanket. A smile parts my lips as I slowly get up from the bed and walk towards the window. The sky is gray as an old silver coin. Stars in the form of delicate snowflakes gently fall on the ground. The grass, a bright green yesterday, is covered by a snow white blanket. The neighbor's children build a lopsided snowman in their yard. Their parents are close, engaging in an intense snowball fight. The father tackles the mother to the ground, then bombards her with an ...

 I swore loudly, massaging my head. Then I picked up the diary which had rudely interrupted my attic cl eaning session. It was very old, someth ing you are likely to find in a museum. It had a spoilt, leather cover and parchment used for pages. I opened it. Written on the first page in careful, curvy handwriting - This is the Property of Larol Smith I went to the first entry. It was dated 'March 1, 1857'. Wow . This diary was almost one-fifty years old. I read through the entries, skipping many. I guessed she was around twenty five when writing this. It was mostly the mundane laments of a wife in the 1850s. I suppose this was the only safe place for her to vent about her husband. I wasn't until 'September', when Larol finally started gaining my interest. September 6, 1857 Something is going on. My lovely plates and china dishes break all of a sudden. Many of my things have gone missing. I thought it was Joseph at first, but as surly he may be, he possibly couldn...

Need to keep it close Afraid of what the future holds We need to stand above the fall Or we might lose it all Remember the days are young The stars shining above The rivers flowing around The life under the ground For the most beautiful of things Like the song of the night Like the calm of the hearth Like the fire of the light All things can be found on earth If you see it all And are sure of what it holds Even the ones who do not wish to live See what earth can give Be sure, for it's the truth It's right here You can see it right now It's the essence of life The abode of humans It's time to recognize The place of our birth The essence of life                                        - Regi Rios This is a poem I wrote on the topic of 'Save Earth'.

In midst of a black void lies a singular candle-lit cottage. The broken windows ae hastily patched up and the wooden door is barely keeping together. It is but the Maker's Workshop. The Maker works in silence, with only his creations to keep him company. He tinkers with one creation till it's perfect, then starts with a new one. Out of his billions of creations, he is still the most proud of one - Earth. One second in his workshop is a century on earth. He been staring at earth for the past hour, counting the minutes till the end. Another tree falls in the distance, and another, then another... 1 …2 …3, he silently counts. All the rivers have gone bad, another garbage can is dumped in the Ganga. The wettest place on earth hasn't had rain in the past two months. 4 …5 …6, he says under his breath. A forest turned into a city, an aimless tiger roaming around. The beautiful trees he had handpicked, one by one turn to dust. 7 …8 …9, he still unceasingly counts. First the dinosau...