The water was held too tightly in the fist. It was there, thats why it felt wet always, and sticky too, like the dried tears pouring down. The fist became strength, the illusion of strength, the hope of strength. It was my fist, the water was collected with lot of faith, with the promises pushed into every drop. The fist was tighter in the moments of anger, in the sufferings of deep pain, in the agony of solitude, in the fear of the unknown, in the excitement of the new and held in the air in celebration of freedom.
Ages the fist was held, tighter with days that went, in anitcipation of the overwhelming future.They dripped daily, every moment. But the wetness stayed and the belief stayed with it. But tomorrow it will be fine, when the fist meets another clammy palm, open, with water dripping too.
But finally, a day came, when the fists were to meet. Dust to dust, just dust to dust.
Time dried the water, till the last drop, only the faint lines running on the palm, left like watermarks, spoke of another story, the lines had changed since the fist was closed. It was closed too tightly I guess, and God knows with what stupid faith. Never opened in all these years, only felt the wetness like a habit.
Ages the fist was held, tighter with days that went, in anitcipation of the overwhelming future.They dripped daily, every moment. But the wetness stayed and the belief stayed with it. But tomorrow it will be fine, when the fist meets another clammy palm, open, with water dripping too.
But finally, a day came, when the fists were to meet. Dust to dust, just dust to dust.
Time dried the water, till the last drop, only the faint lines running on the palm, left like watermarks, spoke of another story, the lines had changed since the fist was closed. It was closed too tightly I guess, and God knows with what stupid faith. Never opened in all these years, only felt the wetness like a habit.
