Moral Short Story – Seeds
Photo credit: anitapeppers from morguefile.com
Days come and nights go
yet some, seeds they never sow.
During harvest, in earnest they wait
with hope in their hearts and guilt very plain.
To see the tree; the seeds they have not sowed
they hang their heads and back they go.
They watch with plain eyes the seeds they have,
but fine, they forget their rocking chair.
They talk and talk of the trees from the seeds,
but for all they do, they forget to act.
To their end they reach, seeds still in their hands,
lifetime has passed and still they cry in pain:
such is life, such is life;
Oh! Still they blame!
Rajesh read the poem and closed his eyes. Tears rolled down his cheeks. He cried heavily, his sound echoing through the empty house. He couldn’t believe he had actually reached where he had never wanted to reach. The poem was written in ink on a paper. He placed in on the table next to him.
How could he have been like this?. He had written the pom on his nineteenth birthday, which he thought would serve as a reminder that life was short and that he had to act on his dreams. But time had crept away so quickly and quietly that he had not even noticed it. He had always put off what he wanted to do to what he had to do, for others sake.
Regret over a life half lived filled his body as he read the poem. The poem he had written. Himself.
He now realized that he had always been busy being busy. That he had mistaken productivity for activity. And now there was no one he could point at to shift the blame. The blame was his. Everyone else had moved on.
The friends he had gone with while ignoring his family. The company in which he had worked for 25 years, ignoring the calls of his son and his dreams.
Time passed.
He never opened his eyes. A breeze flew through. The paper on the table, fluttered. The breeze carried it away through the window.
Rajesh was buried in the local cemetery. His tomb read “Who knew this man…?’ and below it was an address scribbled illegibly.
A paper landed on the grave. It was the poem.
A man came by, took the paper and went on his way. He was a publisher.
And Rajesh smiled from the skies. He waved his hands and the breeze moved. He had become the wind.
Destiny was sweet, but he was too late to taste it.
__END__
