The lost veil

The Lost Veil of a Wood Chopper Anurag Mishra His wings of dreams took silent flight, The fragrance of his tiny life Spilled colours across the air. He spoke in castles of casting days, Where he reigned— King of a kingdom written In the diary of his own becoming. The final click of life’s quiet evils Split his thoughts like wood beneath an axe, Opening his mind to tender truths. A day glowed softly in his fragile hours, While the silver-lined axe of his earning Fell like autumn dew— Gentle, yet inevitable. Verses once resting on his poetic desk Now lie broken, As his limbs return to the dust of mud. Those hands that once scattered diamond light Now remember the weight of earth. The footsteps of his cracked heart Pause, listening for lost fortune. The spirit in his gloomy eyes Still shines with yesterday’s glow, Yet now his home is built of journals— Pages filled with gradual thoughts And quiet smiles of survival. The soil’s fragrance, mixed with sickle dust, Returns to him like a forgotten hymn, Reminding him— Once, he was a wandering chopper Carving shining tears Into the wood of life.