Fear

In time we hate that which we often fear.
&
In a false quarrel there is no true valour.
Courtesy : William Shakespear

Smiling Shore

The stream was always steady, it never care to bear any mark of the past. Hundreds of boats sailed on top, in the calm mood, in the dancing temper, and in floodwater; none could script any scar, any hazy fancy mark. Close to the shore, the boat was consciously empty, only to keep some room for benevolence, was tied to a thin, delicate mast. The subtle mast bonded the vessel to its heart, the smiling shore.

Hurrying men passed by, no single traveler rowed the vessel to ferry the muddy water to the greener bank of their dreams; the liner reserved itself open to brace the entire blue sky above, peacefully with the little mast, the quiet cohort. Every time a flood arrived, the boat stirred closer to the mast, closer to the shore, narrowed the span of the time-weathered cord, which bonded them to infinity. Boat made full circles in the stream and each circle drove the mast close, clear and dear.

It was raining; as the mast witnessed silently helpless, the intense waves came from the blues and the vessel conceived the whole hammering drops onto its virgin bosom. The under current was stubborn, which shook the mast, trembled the string, troubled the vessel, hit it hard; the roaring clouds and the ominous lightening dictated their despair. The shower was soporific, a heavy wave threw the boat towards the shore, it hit the mast hard, and hard enough to painfully break it, but the mast hold the vessel to withstand the fuming current. The flooding water crossed the haughty borders set by the shore. The boat made repeated circles, half sunk, surfed through the rippling waves, just to find the mast holding it to the heart.

The smashed shoreline was still smiling at the mast!!