A talk , perhaps with dead
I sat by the road ,
And had a talk with dead.
' what is life ? '
I asked it taking some breathe.
It smiled at me as if , I would
be having some flex, about
a life I am living in nest
And it replied -
"Life is a story with many verses,
One starts and rather other ends,
Having some nexus , in their
Stanzas , my friend."
( - it sighs )
"It's like a ballad , you know,
You have to sing along.
Though in distress or in frown ,
Though in happiness or in a sneer renown."
(- it suspires )
"You sing , you live , you explore.
The verses in your style,
And after some period of clock ,
You start weaving them into your own rhymes."
(- it inhales )
"And one day comes ,
You know and you realise.
That someday you wouldn't be able
to rhyme the verses ."
(- it gasps )
"You perceive that you wouldn't write them on paper,
As your ink would be over the other day ."
(- it exhales )