What is life but a circus show?
With every fall of yours, the laughs grow
The clown in you steals the show,
The face behind the mask,
no one cares to know.
What are you but a pendulum that’s slow?
Restless you are, moving to and fro,
Yet so useless, with spirits so low,
Falling behind time’s flow,
Trying desperately to swing,
for all you know,Stopped things,
they like to throw.
What is life but a river sans its flow?
Dried and parched under the hot sun’s glow,
No bird on the banks, but the odd crow,
Time has left not a friend, not a foe,
You long for the water, its gushing flow,
The fish, the plants with whom you grow,
The birds, the boats, the occasional canoe,
A dream that’ll never be true, you now know.
What are you but a tree that doesn’t grow?
With leaves so less and branches so low,
Grown in your shade, many people you know,
Remember the years they played in your shadow,
Rich and famous now, they raise a brow,
The sore sight of you, when past you they go.
What is life but a death row?
You live with people you don’t really know,
You make them laugh, forget sorrow,
When the depths of you are too hollow,
Alone you were and are, you know,
Alone you will be when its time to go,
You look at yourself, the pendulum slow,
The old tree that doesn’t grow,
Hopelessly hope that the river does flow,
And wait in solitude for the time to go.
