An ode to an Accident.

It all boils down to you
all my merits, all my warts
what I am today; and also,
what I would have been.

Enjoying the mild english breeze
or dying in the Indian summer heat
alone and weak, but on a palatial bed
or dying of age and hunger on a road

oh what fun it would have been
to be the party patriarch's son
and not one of the thousands
to toil away under the sun

you make or break
with that shake of your finger
do you realise the power you wield
in what you do, my dear?

we start off from the dot numbered one
and connect the rest,all on our own-we feel
how many of us are wise enough,
that the dots were numbered for us.

Using a palet of colours
we paint our own landscape
Alas! do we ever realise, your choice-
on our palet, sets the scene?

We build our own homes, its true
for we plan, we align and toil
but forget we all do
where comes the bricks and the soil

I could have been screaming murder
not talking of sacrifices to the greater cause
I could have been scraping dung for food
than joke about shitting habits of famine hit

And yet, inspite of all this
when I pause-I choose to run and not bother
the maker and breaker, the nurture and nature
of all around me, in my own ignorance i forget thee.

Let me take a bow and doff my cap
I do acknowledge u oh supreme thee
An accident called birth, for you I clap.
out of my bonnet, now thats over, you annoying bee!