Since the day I started writing

my mother told me that

I was capturing life instead of living it,

to which my father smiled.

His smile tells

that he is trying to chase the

shades of poet in me.

He reads a paragraph of my poem

and tries to decipher the complexity

between the verses:

where eras syndicate with days.

The snail at the end of woods

meets the waves rippling from the other side

under the gloaming horizon of fate.

I tell my mother

that the snail asks life everyday:

what are you upto?

to which the waves reply

seek it

under the ocean of eternity

but try to find out

what the drops hold for now,

before making your way to the final moment.