I walk on rope.

Each day, each moment I cherish.

Uncertain of the treasure in store,

Be it gold, frankincense or myrrh.


Who expected those tremendous, torrential tides

(Once tenderly lapping ones)

To sweep off those Christmas mirth stuffed faces

From the face of the earth?


Mothers awaited their children’s return,

Not limbless, not headless, nor pierced like a scrap of punched holes;

But whole.


Uncertainty is vicious!

The self same cussedness keeps students counting opportunities.

It keeps rulers running amidst the unforeseen ostracism.

“Karma”, they’d say.


Yet, it teaches to let go,

To strive amidst trial,

To learn of lessons taught.


Uncertainty is the salt in my bread, the cellared wine,

It is the darker pastel which shades my painted horizon.


– Oshanthaka Cabraal 



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