The String
Two pins stand on the map
One the beginning, one the end
But what connects the two
Is a string born from the mind
What will the string be made of?
What fibres create its form?
Will it be silken and smooth?
Or coarse and rough?
Will it even reach the other end?
Or snap in its midst?
That string is ours to make
We are the weavers of our fate
The path is ours to create
For us alone will it be laid
Copyright © Debjit Chatterjee | Year Posted 2024
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