I’ve given more fruits than I could,
and now my branches stoop,
with the weight of loss.
I thought I could heal by giving, and more giving,
and when the new seeds did sprout, regain what I’d lost.
But I’m tired.
I’m so tired…
I’m tired of this purpose Lord.
Maybe the saviour too needs saving after all…
Will you resurrect my spirit, and save my soul?
Oh this is no poetry, this is life,
there’s no poetry in reality, unless I fictionalise –
take a retreat to regroup, before I rise.
© Isha Garg