In this interlace
Between the branches
Of a hundred deserted trees
Where the light chose
To shine into
Their deep marsh
Underbelly of unknown.
Here life has arrived again
Into another year,
Into her,
As she learnt to
Melt into time
And smile from
Within her heart-
The warmth for her winter.
At this oddity called
Time.
There is a reason why everything happens.
A reason why you are born.
A reason for why you were born on the day you were born.
A reason for the home or street that brings you up.
A reason for your existence.
One for the way you are.
And the unavoidable one for how your life turns out to be.
Every emotion, every thought, every act, every word- spoken or not, is accounted for with a reason not always known to the limited consciousness of our human minds.
Like all these rivulets, we are pooled into nothing but the sea of humanity.
And then all these reasons, at an uncalled vertex of moment, will flood into your awareness of making any sense at all with vague words for explanation.
Why they were always there in the beginning.
And why they will always be there till the end.
Nothing is a coincidence, and yet everything is.
