By Atharv Mehta
I cannot sleep, so through the aperture I gaze,
The crescent shines with a marvelous light,
The scene, as if plucked from a timeless page,
Crickets chanting in the stillness of the night.
A stoic sound surrounds my quiet abode,
Its calmness has disturbed my restless mind,
I seek the source, where shadows bode,
Guided by instincts, strong yet blind.
I feel its presence, reach out my hand,
Met with the coarse texture of ancient bark,
A towering giant, majestic and grand,
Standing firm, a sentinel in the dark
it is a goliath, a hundred feet tall,
in a drunken sway, it ponders upon my role,
its wise eyes gazing right into my soul,
it wonders, am I a friend or a foe after all?
It seems to like me, for I am now allowed to see
This magical domain, belongs to this magical oak tree
The foal, the fawn, the big and the small
All sleep in comfort, beside this indestructible wall
with its dusky brown leaves, flawlessly flawed,
and its infinite branches, each a metre broad
the true embodiment of the sin of pride,
and on this lonely journey of mine, a newfound guide
Upon the talk of heaven, we look up to the azure
However at this moment I realize,
this tree Is exactly what we are looking for
The moon’s rays cast a beanstalk silhouette,
I sit with my back against my newfound friend,
In this cold night I wonder, no longer upset,
For in this place, my loneliness finally ends