a poem by P.K.N. Panicker, India

That little drop,
a bubble,
a tiny globule,
identity lost,
transparency destroyed
with embedded dirt and filth
gathered all along
the paths travailed,
drifting aimlessly
in the turbulent muddy waters
of the river
at the estuary
about to be swallowed
and assimilated
by the ocean vast, fathomless,
had a passing glimpse
of a little dewdrop,
morning fresh
from the tender leaf
of the mighty teak
on the mountain slopes
in the eastern forests
of God’s own country,
dripping down.

Refracted sun-rays
scattered on all sides
from its crystal-clear flesh,
a beauty to watch,
a scintillating sight to experience,
a rainbow in its bosom
all for itself,
a poem – divine.

That little drop
heaved a sigh,
‘How nice it would be,
if I could only be like
that little dewdrop?’,
but realised not
that she was
the very same drop, once.

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