They sit on both sides of the fence,
Sip their wine and warm their hands
With yesterday’s smouldering fire.
Through the slits in their lips
And settle down in the ash.
Wrapped in a cynical shroud,
They perpetually cry out loud
Whichever way the river flows.
Some unroll their dark side from under their sleeves,
And rattle off questions,
What’s right with the world? Nothing’s at ease.
Did you see the spots on the sun?
Something tells me, we need to be on the run.
Why plough the field?
Why sow the seed?
It didn’t rain last year,
It won’t this time too.
Those clouds are illusions,
They’d last for only an hour or two.
They frequently appeal
To keep in check your zeal,
And when on the river bank they see
A man toiling to build a boat,
Why bother to work so hard, they say,
You ain’t good enough to keep it afloat.
And as the years go,
The lethargy begins to show.
Their bottoms have grown fatter
Their feet have slowed down,
Their tongues morphed into spikes,
Their feet nailed to the ground.
Their audience has moved,
Now it’s too late to start afresh, they say.
So they trudge to the river bank,
Call the oarsman to get his boat,
And cross the river to whine another day.