You never spoke of conquering heights,
Or of scars you have to mend.
You never showed a tear in your eye,
Or haunting fear from nightmares.
No pity too subtle, no rage overpowering;
No karma too harsh, no miracles ‘moving’.
You never lit a melancholy candle of hope,
Or rituals appeasing faith.
You never spoke of the world’s wisdom,
Or proved too timid to brave.
What fits the hand is for the taking;
What falls otherwise is not worth bothering.
And as you moulded us for the kiln,
We take shapes into perfect porcelain.
Can we make it through with sanity ?
As fading colours of life give way to reality.