Gururaj Ananda Yogi 24 agosto, 2014

It was hard this life..

It was a hard life this; digging the ground

who cares to know how parched it was

my back is broken carrying the water pails

I am old, the trees so young, bearing blossoms.

I console myself in the beauty of flowers,

They frolic in the wind but do not know

that the gardener with love and tender care nurtured them

now sits in the corner forgotten and forlorn

I watch the sun and wind and clouds floating by.

Every father craves a little smile for his labour.

I dug with bare hands, planting each seed lovingly

They do not care. I sit in the corner forgotten and forlorn.

Can you remember when you were a seedling

The rains never came and all prayers were in vain,

I cried and cried so tears would come and feed you

Now you are strong and couldn't care for the gardener

sitting in the corner forgotten and forlorn.

Hands were covered with manure and stink filled my clothes,

But you had to grow, I know the play of life is work.

Discarded am I as a rotten apple is;

Now I sit with broken bones forgotten and forlorn.

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The Gardener

It was a hard life this; digging the ground,

Who cares to know how parched it was.

My back is broken carrying the water pails;

I am old, the trees so young, bearing blossoms.

I console myself in the beauty of the flowers,

They frolic in the wind but do not know

That the gardener with love and tender care nurtured them,

now sits in the corner – forgotten and forlorn.

I watch the saun and wind and clouds floating by.

Every father craves a little smile for his labour.

I dug with bear hands, planting each seed lovingly,

They, do not care. I sit in the corner forgotten and forlorn.

Can’t you remember when you were a seedling

The rains never came and all prayers were in vain,

I cried and cried so tears would come and feed you

Now you are strong and couldn’t care for the gardener

sitting in the corner forgotten and forlorn.

Hands were covered with manure and stink filled my clothes,

But you had to grow, I know the play of life is work.

Discarded am I as a rotten apple is;

Now I sit with broken bones forgotten and forlorn.

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