waking up

we try

to turn keys

(painted with generous coats of rust,

pinned down by bundles of ignorance,

forgotten by people looking only at mirrors)

 

The keys shall

uncuff

a dawn dipped zephyr

(albeit, through the peephole of a heavy smog dam)

 

The zephyr intersperses drops of sun through the populace

and flows like a balm of neem blended with turmeric,

(even if it strolls along like a mystic on holiday,

pausing now,

then picking up

as it fancies)

 

it is rumored to annihilate plastics in its wake.

 

Seeds shall soon be curious enough,

to poke their little shoots out,

and be the headwaters of forests.

 

Forests shall spread like green fire

to re-envelope this earth in its vitality

heralding in the reign of ‘a just enough life’.

 

If only,

the rust-painted pinned-down forgotten keys

would turn. 

 

Possibility
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