A Wind We Soar: Destiny

A fire of hope crackled afront

A waft of heat swelled across

Filling the frosty wind with life

In a room where much had been lost

The darkness of night,

kept out in the air so damp

By a keeper of light, a meagre lamp

Stories they told of lively times

The clock on the wall speaking of patterns and rhymes

An old, tired room, of creaky spruce

Where much had changed

Other than that, of a chair whose

Form had life still, and rested on top

A delicate figure, at their final stop

And gently glided two reminiscent drops

From the deep, hazel eyes of a man.

Grey 'stache and wrinkles were jewels on his face

His suit and tie of a time begone

Adored by those that lived long ago

But it would seem, that not anymore

A deep voice that crackled

He spoke with gentle might

Each word spoke of lifetimes

A scene, set in black and white

Using the final shards of strength, he had

He spoke to the man sitting afront

Wisdom rising from his thin lips

He stared into the eyes of his grandson

He saw the reflection of the fire in them

He saw light amidst the dark iris

"Let me tell you a story, son"

"The story of Destiny"

"A story understood by none"

"What is destiny, Grandpa"? questioned the young man.

The old man leaned back lightly

In his heavy little chair

And smiled a little,

And for a moment, with care

Thought of a reply for the young man

"A journey it is,

One taken by everything alive.

In the times we live

in the times we strive

It is destiny at play."

"A journey to what, to where, and why"?

"A journey of purpose,

A journey to fulfilment,

But the question of 'why'?

The answer I know not

An answer which by many is sought".

"Then how can you be certain something like this exists Grandpa? How do you know from the beginning that life has purpose, that it will be fulfilled"?

"Over the years

I have come to see

You hold a story

That's distinct from me

A story that is set from the starting of life,

A compilation of all our joys and strife".

[The young man pulls both his eyebrows closer as if in questioning thought, and innocently utters]

"Who writes this story Father, who decides"?

[The ends of the crusty lips gently bend up, resulting in a reminiscent smile, as if memories of the past flood in]

"With faith I believe,

That it is god

But the true answer

Again, I know not".

"I'm afraid I do not understand, dear grandpa. Because if what you speak of holds true, then what of all that I have done, all that I have achieved, all that I have learnt over the years I have walked this earth? What of all those experiences I call my 'own', those which are ever so dear to me and those which I hold proudly near my heart? Were they written by the hands of another? Were they never mine? How can I have faith in such a concept?"

With a smile on his face

A sparkle in his eyes

His lips separated

But wisdom did not rise

His son, sat still

His teary hazel eyes

Glistened in hope of a reply

But an answer, the old man was unable to surmise.

"You ask a question

Which perplexes me,

Why do we bother,

When all we see

All we lived for

Till the end

Was for a reason

Which to heaven will send

Fulfilling a purpose

A complete, and a satisfied being".

"People of our age, have lived our life

Lived through sorrow, lived through strife

We have lived through duties, obligation unbent

We live now only to see a purpose

And a peaceful end

And in all this, destiny is key

Because life has purpose, my work is seen".

The smile on his face

Now a meagre frown

Not of anger but rather of doubt

Of his own understanding of what he called life

His own solitude which lay beyond his strife

A thought which puzzled his wisdom-full mind

For he knew not an answer

Of any kind.

The young man now, sitting, kneeling on the floor

Hands on his grandpa's lap, and an intense roar

Of passion that showed to rise in his eyes

What is thought? what is wise?

A million questions rose in his mind

And a strength that questioned

If destiny did bind

"Dear father, at the step of life I find myself, I am nearer to the bottom of the staircase than the top. I have dreams to live and goals to establish, relationships to build and duties to do. I live so that I can work towards the end, I live to 'live' my life, and I believe that if I were to do something, help the world in some way, achieve something, it would be through my own effort, through my own decisions, through my own freewill".

Both beings opened their mouth simultaneously,

But no words seemed to escape

And then rose a vivacious fire of thought

With passion such that had not been seen or heard for many years in this room

It was as if life had taken its path back, like it was a conflict between destiny and a chosen track

But not all was over, for wisdom prevailed, there were still some words, that found their way.

The fire rose higher, the intensity grew

The cold and darkness fought to enter the room

The tears of the room, rose as did the frost

The wind rung with the memories of the past

Was this all the doing of a hand

That every second, the story of every man?

Was a life that lived, a staged scene

Or the doing of will, of those that are keen

A division of generations, a difference of sorts

A difference in understanding of contrasting thoughts.

But in the hazel that glistened ever so loud

A sparkle rose, a truth was sound.

And in all this, words escaped the closed mouth,

wisdom again, rose from the hazel brown.

"When you look at the mountains

When you peek at the ceaseless fields

At the orange and purple hues of the dusk

At the evergreen trees

When there is joy in your heart

When love is all you see

Then the words that leave your mouth

'Maybe this was meant to be'".

The words filled the room,

A spring that blossomed again

After a boulder of thought

Moved back, beneath the bed

And as the man with his hazel eyes

Glanced around at his beloved room

His memories of prize

A vision sound from each corner of the room

An anecdote in all, from wooden floor to dusty broom

The young boy saw it all

As he traced his grandfather's eyes,

And saw a gentle sparkle, a shift from the grey, wise.

"I speak to you in poem and song,

With the wisdom I have, from memories

That I dare so are long gone".

[A confused look on the boy's face as he tilts his head. The grandfather smiles and lets out a little laugh]

"My dear boy, you reminded me of more

Of my life, of the winds I soared".

A smile on their faces

Resonant in thought

A beautiful clarity was struck.

The one they sought

The boy now smiled

And felt the breeze

For the room was no longer quiet

It was filled with memories.

"It was destiny, wasn't it?

The winds you rode"

"The winds of life

The winds that showed"

"A current of their own

That led you on"

"I chose when to rise

And when to fall"

"A concept, not understood by all

A life complete, destiny's call

For as our goals today stand tall

But at the end of the day, life is small

And destiny our story

A wind we ride

A path we choose

I suppose, a little of all".

[Iridescent pearls glided down from the hazel eyes, the boy put his head on his grandfather's lap, and with sweet caress and joy, the old man ruffled his jet-black hair. The fire was now out, the silence lay still, a magical power had overtaken the room.]

Winds of destiny rose

The frost blown away

Golden rays of morning filled the room

Marking a new day

For today life had found its way

For today, Life had found its way.