This inevitable pattern is coloured by a mysterious aura,
To most, it is the trapping web where the condemned are chained,
A vain struggle that is circled with dark certainties,
In it, retreating and turning back is almost impossible
These thoughts penetrated deeper and deeper into my mind,
While brief strokes of sunlight accompanied by warm breeze washed my face,
Vanishing all the pale plain colours clogged on my struggling skin,
From the ill-starred and dismal destiny that was beckoning
I tried to make heads or tails of this threatening, throbbing one question,
If I was an art, an artistic creation…..what would I be?
Would I be an easy sweet lying piece of poem?
Would I be a beautiful sad song from an old recording?
Would I be a pious painting that accompanied travellers of hypocrisy?
Or would I be a piece of sculpture that demanded and inspired respect?
All around me… were beautiful and colourful petals that moved with equal rhythm,
A rhythm that bound them together to their unrestricted nature,
They seemed to surrender inexplicably to the nemesis that claimed them,
Oh! It was a delicate secret of trust to the unknown, to the invincible!