I know something of what the young soldier feels in the midst of battle;
know something too, of the kind of hope a fortune teller can provide.
In the grand chaos, I meditate before the silent cup,
and replace with faith, my resounding cries.
Destiny tosses her silver coin, up in the air, and my heart leaps with it,
the coin drops, and so does my hopeful heart – but I must accept it…
When thunder rumbles, threatening my garden, I know well,
what will happen; yet, I look back with hope, to the flowers I have planted.
The blind beggar, with his bowl of copper, sings a hymn of hope to the clink of coins –
how dangerous and powerful must his faith be, to help him get by!
Hope tilts the scales of burdens to blessings; chains the stubborn Saturnian lessons of time –
Will God follow suit, and take my agony, before it takes over all that I am?
© Isha Garg