Slither slither the water slaps the boat,
the edges blurring,
moving towards the other end,the Boatman rows.
Nobody knows why he rows,
ever in this looming melancholy,
rowing silently with vigour,
with a silent symphany.
The darkness of the water ,
is attractive,seductive,
why doesn't he plunge beneath,
into the cool retreat.
But he rows on relentlessly,
untired limbs working away,
sweat breaking on his brow,
his passengers restless,
Because the River is threatening,
calm and cold,
it flows with a vigour,
powerful yet dominating.
Remarkable though it is,
daunting it seems,
darkness overflows and meets the light,
half elation and sorrow.
I often ask the Boatman,
why does he do it,
so on and so forth,
isn't it better to leave?
He smiles inimitably,
and moves his hand over his face saying,
when you have crossed the river,
as many times as I
Nothing seems to matter,
after a while,
everything's just,
coming and going.
I realize
that is what life is,
some come in,
some go out,
we are the boatman of our life,
And the comers mere passengers,
the goers mere passers,
The Boatman doesn't befriend them,
and he tells me to do the same,
"one day they all leave..."
I try to follow,
I ask him about the lure of the river
he says only the fear of the unknown
keeps him from abandoning his boat,
it's tempting to give up the boat of life,
and plunge into the unknown,
But then,
who knows what it has in store?
the Boatman doesn't know
and so I don't.
