The Confluence

This life, a confluence,

Must have both fair and foul;

Our free choice must influence

Whether we will heal or howl.

There must be, must be contrary;

I recall our great Blake;

We are, sometimes, in a quandary;

Which path are we supposed to take?

Hence, we are given discretion;

Our deeds must pave our way;

We determine our condition:

Utter delight or utter dismay.

The days wear away too fast

For anyone to regret and waste;

The eroded spot might last;

Leave your footprints here without haste.

Our selection matters most

In the confluence of weal and woe;

Bereft of Envy and of Boast,

We ought to glorify our mothers’ throe.

Stoop and Rise

I, too, yearn to do something,

Something on my own;

A moment can’t be a plaything;

Else, we’re bound to groan.

We need to be much aware

Of our every step for the future;

Humanity is rare, too rare;

We keep sinning till our departure.

We never try to rectify

Our ill nature, due to pride;

Hence, destiny must magnify

Pains for us and penal stride.

We can so well pass the blame,

Saying, “I did nothing, nothing at all.”

Life and time do change the game;

Thus, we slip off; our ego does fall.

I, too, desire to do something;

Then I must learn how to stoop;

Humility does, does sing

The victory song in every loop.