Aniruddha Pathak Poet Quatrain

Old age as brings me to brood - II

No matter what I do,
No matter what I don’t,
Return one day I’ve to 
This water hole-- hangout haunt.

To this polluted river
Fouled by me to wash me clean,
Me, the same old beaver
To build my lodge anew and green.

To plough my own karmic field
To sow seeds, raise my food,
If or not they would yield,
Yet, I must try still if just to feel good.

And find I must my own fault
To start all over again,
Wash my wounds-- there’s no alt
But to play the same old refrain.

Guru there’s nor a god-man
Nor a ready-made lotion
To rub on my wounds if in vain,
Imbibing same bitter potion 
 
And search for remedy,
Create my own antidote
To cure my self-wrought malady,
Life is to struggle, swim sans boat.

No matter what I do,
No matter what I don’t,
Return one day I’ve to  
To this water-hole-- hangout haunt.
_______________________
Musings | 07.05.2026 | life, philosophy, river, quatrain

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