Ashwatthama

Any great tale is but a reflection

Of the times, and of the tides

That engulf the curiosities of the mind,

And speaks, not of the today

Or of the 'morrow; but to itself,

Indulgent in affairs - which shape what is.

Such is the fate of undying stories,

Ones which are cursed to live on

And remind us of what we ought not to be;

Or that we ought not to choose -

While suffering the flicker of a candle,

So that there exists for us, an eventuality.

If not, there begins a story, at the demise

Of values, and at the slope of tragedy -

To encircle what lies within, and breathes beneath;

There is but always a story, lurking in the shadows

Of each man's heart, and in a woman's womb -

Waiting, for what consciousness would rather delete.