I feel tears on my face; why
Have they sprung forth?
Salty ones, bitter ones,
Hopeful ones; and all I did,
Was glance at that grapevine.
I gazed for a long while;
How beautiful, how perfect
It seems! The way it coils
Seductively; in deep purple and green
Its leaves glimmer in dull light;
How the tendrils delicately curl
And cling tight around my finger.
How strongly yet gently it climbs its way
To the sky; oh, how it shines!
How its muddy roots stick deep in earth,
Yet how high it climbs!
How can some things be beautiful,
And others not so?
How can one shine in brilliance,
While the other is dulled by misery?
Why do You give your hand to some,
And wave it past some others?
Is this the game that life plays,
To taunt us to our own graves?
Drowned in giddiness, I swung,
And I gripped the wooden stake
That held that wretched vine.
I felt my fingers scrape at knotted wood,
I looked up at the pole that took the vine
To its abode; it was no different.
The perfect wood for the perfect vine,
Of course it was to be.
Lean, in shades of brown
Streaked with yellow, tinged orange,
And a sprinkle of black; a mix of colours
For a mix of passionate emotions.
It was rounded to perfection, yet there left
Certain ruggedness in its look;
And like the vine, its tall being,
Pointed straight to the heavens.
Almost as if they had journeyed there,
At the same time.
At that, my heart stopped;
With a thought, a question:
But how?
I studied the vine feverishly,
But I could sight nothing.
My mind fizzled, my heart stung.
How could that vine, so fragile,
With smoothened silk stem,
Un-hooked, un-roped, un-spined,
Un-lined with resinous glue,
Claw its way, with no hold,
Up that smoothened pole
To its destiny?
Another of Your miracles,
Is that not?
But I swear, I saw the true miracle,
As I turned my eyes to the stake
And back to the vine.
The sturdy wooden stake.
And the delicate purple vine.
Their muddy roots both buried
Deep within the earth;
Yet both their heads
Seeking to reach the skies,
As one.
They were entwined; not only
In fate; but in need, in love.
No hooks need bind them,
No ropes need hold them,
No glue need stick them
Together; nothing, but a need
To grow and flourish together,
In the sun, in the rain, in the
Harsh winter nights.
Nothing but need, and destined fate,
Knitted them together,
United.
As one.
Am I the vine?
Am I the stake?
Whose life is destined
To be entwined with mine?
Tears on my face;
They sprung forth.
Salty ones, bitter ones,
Hopeful ones; and all I ever did,
Was glance at that grapevine.
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