Kal rah pe
chalte chalte, ek udte patey se poocha maine
Har jhokein
se tu bhidta hai, pag pe chalte har prani ke pairon ki maar tu sehta hai
Kisi se
kuch na kehta hai
Tu kyun
chup chup rehta hai
Woh bola
mujhse, jhokon ka kaam to hai behna woh teri taap bhujatein hai
Pairon ka
kaam to hai badna, ye tujhko aagey le jaatein hai
Hai shor
bahut iss duniya main jis shor ka koi aant nahin
Main shor
macha kar aur yahan kis parinaam ko paunga
Main to
chota sa pata hoon kal fir nit naya khil aaunga
Tu mujhko pag pe dekh dukhi na ho, main to paed ki meeti yaadon mein jeeta hoon
Isliye
kissi se kuch na kehta hoon
Isliye chup
chup main rehta hoon
The final page of every chapter, the final chapter of every
book, most probably for a lot of people out there the most important aspect of
life- closure, an overused and overvalued term.
We all work very hard to get closure, to find a way to attain
that perfect ending to things but is it ever possible. Is there a perfect
ending to anything? I think not. Things end and then we start over, trying to
erase the memories of our past, trying to find meaning in what we did and why
we lost, like a pin ball hitting going back and forth, coming to one conclusion
after another till we find out that chances, the options, are over… with open
issues and no closure.
But closure is so important, I push myself to write good last
lines, for my poems, for everything else I write, because it gives meaning to
everything I write. Those final lines define what my story is about but then
again that is only an end because I want to end it and I think in there lies
the answer.
What though the
radiance which was once so bright
Be not forever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
Grief not, rather find,
Strength in what remains behind,
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be,
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of Human suffering,
In the faith that looks through death
In years that bring philophic mind.
Be not forever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
Grief not, rather find,
Strength in what remains behind,
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be,
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of Human suffering,
In the faith that looks through death
In years that bring philophic mind.
William Wordsworth
