Divine Grace reaps the paddy-stalks of man’s being –
Ripe and swaying with leisure in the wind,
Lifting them high
She beckons them to the glory of the Sun,
Then in an orderly motion thrashes them
On the grindstone of his life
Raw grain shuns the hardened husk –
Of divisive habit endeared to its core,
Husk and grain fall off together –
The nascent grain’s first breath of life,
The grain still feels the husk as its own –
Separated only for a game of play
It joins hands with the husk,
Bracing its new reality with hesitant wonder
It ponders quietly its dual existence
Until Grace bends down to gather with her gentle hands –
Grain and its separated husk,
Throwing a song to the galloping Wind,
She asks him to drop by for a fleeting call
With delicate nudges of her hands
She tosses grain and husk in the air,
Grain and husk, side by side,
In an upheaval of newfound joy –
A graceful poetry in motion
Made timeless by the kiss of the Sun
Up and down, down and up,
Grain and husk stay a separated One,
Half assured by the play, half wondering,
The grain smilingly flinches at the Wind’s ticklish caress –
Overflowing from cheek to cheek in a mid-air whirl
With a peck on the grain’s cheek,
The Wind tides over with its off-currents,
Casting the husk to waft away
On its invisible, stretched arms
The grain quietens its boisterous play,
With backward, oblique stares
Sees off a distant husk,
Then with an assured novelty
Goes on to shine its golden hue