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Elizabeth Rosna Poem
In the shade, under the banyan tree,
Where the man lays his heavy head
And rests his pounding heart;
He whispers in his dreams,
His hopes in his life, he leads.
His dreams are coloured
As the vivid hues
Painted across his cheeks.
A mini sunset painted on his face
But in his dreams, it's the dawn.
Dawn of sunrise.
He wishes for the tomorrow,
Yet to come.
Oh, how the records are played on repeat;
As the songweavers reach for the Sun at day's end.
The melancholy in their voices,
Some, chirping and twirling,
They wish for the today
That is about to end.
But some, singing their melodies in the skies
All the while, making their way home
To their nest, beyond the Sun
Alongside, their shadows
Dancing on the valleys.
And their reflections
Hiding their weary wings-
On the lazy river;
Its water fall down the horizon
With the moon on its tail.
As the man under the colouring shade
They wish for the tomorrow,
Yet to come.
Copyright © Elizabeth Rosna | Year Posted 2024
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Elizabeth Rosna Poem
It’s the same everyday
The same wind, the same lush
The same whisper, the same tale
Yet, in the mist that blows
Through the sunlit meadows
I hear the same voice
Echoed different
Each time.
As my gazes fall
From the subtle ocean floating overhead
Carrying its tiny islands
To the coasts near the tangible oceans
There’s the wonder on him
Who let’s me stand.
There’s the thunders, Earth echoes
Through its hollow corridors;
And the storm it carries
Wanting to put everything in motion
It screams, and screams
It doesn’t know why,
As its voice, silence its ears, but others.
There’s the turmoil
It wishes to understand
So he shook the ground
That refused to let him
Stand his ground
The earthquakes with their heavy blow
It was its breakdowns.
The fear, now replaced with anger
Wants to have peace
He decides to unleash
Not wanting to care
But to let the land burn;
Volcanoes were made
When it had its meltdowns.
As the torment inside him grew
He tormented the world, he nurtured.
Threw his tantrums
As cyclones and tsunamis.
Like a human, Like a child.
Still, it has the tranquility,
I often wondered how it kept;
With all the commotion, he caused
And the ones, they brought.
I admire the seasons it bring
The summer, when it felt the warmth;
Warmth of the sun
And the chuckles of the new born green.
The spring, when it felt the love;
From the giggles overheard
Near the fresh flower bed
To the wisdom bestowed to the sages
By the Himalayan mountain ranges
With their long white beard,
Love was heard.
And then,
Came the autumn, when it retreats
To find the love within, engraved within.
To find it’s gemstone,
To reach it’s milestone.
Soon the wind arrives with its spikes
Now the nature retreats,
A different way.
It hikes the earlier Santa Claus-ed mountains
To heal himself, for the next year.
I admire the seasons it bring
The wind, the rain
It learnt to unwind it’s tantrum
In the solitude,
In the same solitude
It offered to the seekers.
It learnt to deal with his surges
Deal with himself.
Like a human. Like an adult.
Yet, it acts like a child
Every now and then
And a few other times.
It has flaws, but it grows
It lives to be born again
And born, to live again.
Different, each time.
A human contained in the nature,
A nature contained within a human.
Copyright © Elizabeth Rosna | Year Posted 2024
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Elizabeth Rosna Poem
Destiny spins its clock
Have we met before?
In a world unknown.
With erased memories
We went on living
Without realizing,
How meaningless it was
Until we met again
And then on
Began a meaningful journey.
But what happens
When it loses its meaning?
Will everything come to an end?
Alas, a full stop to a sentence, completes it;
Just like how it was for our journey.
All I can hope for
Is it to end on a good note.
Destiny spins its clock once again
A life purpose unserved.
Copyright © Elizabeth Rosna | Year Posted 2024
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Elizabeth Rosna Poem
A pen who never bleeds blue nor black
As the changing shades of a clear night sky;
Bleeds blood, ever deep red
As a sword who fought million battles.
He never reveals his tale
But it is to be remembered
And will be remembered.
He sets aright others' lives
Make corrections, make amends.
Unlike his kin, with a white skin
The correction pen, bleeding white;
He never hesitates to unveil blunders,
Others made;
Only pronounce them, guiding them
To learn from their faulty footings.
The White King asserts:
" I, who, hide his flaws
Flaws of juvenile origins;
Grateful, he is, to me.
In his life's canvas,
With no scars to be blamed for,
He starts anew.
Turning the hourglass,
To let his scars go into oblivion,
Never to be seen again-
To him nor the others
With a history anew,
He starts afresh."
The blood sword, now spoke
He voiced his voice, as he said:
"Let your wrong footings stay,
Learn from them; grow."
Copyright © Elizabeth Rosna | Year Posted 2024
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Elizabeth Rosna Poem
Once there was a soul
Adhered to a wall
No longer part of he.
So he set himself free.
A world behind the curtains
Welcomed him with glee
With open fangs and menace
And closed hands, with folds
He went back to the wall
Where they said he belonged.
Put a struggle to fit the hole
He once left behind.
Though it was in vain.
As the hole, no longer described him
Nor the shadow, he once was.
As a sore thumb, he stood exposed
Wounded and out of place.
He now belonged
To nowhere
Where he felt welcomed
As his peer
Once had warned.
Copyright © Elizabeth Rosna | Year Posted 2024
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