Should I clasp Your outstretched hands from worlds above,
my earthly sorrow to cease –
or will You deny me another gift hence, (having thwarted your first),
saying, I deserve the grief?
What heat is this, my present state –
all discomfort, all despair,
no zest for life, no faith in fate,
where ‘fair is foul and foul is fair’?
How then will I go on, and why,
when nothing more doth please;
where eyes have cried so much they’re dry,
is it so selfish to want to sleep?
Why do age old testaments haunt me with their writings,
when for all of science they may not be true?
Why do I fear the consequences of sleeping,
and fearing, thus, remain perpetually blue?
© Isha Garg