Riddle Of A Seed

My hands remember the way they molded the earth,

that embraced the seed in its womb,

as an embryo amidst the heartwrenching dearth

of traces of life all around.

The layers of the soil that tended it with selfless pride,

witnessed the growth of green towards the blue.

The leaves that could bridge th divide,

climbed up with veins of strength as they grew.

As sunlight tiptoed towards the grass,

the plant sang the song of oxygen.

It roughened with the chapters of the hourglass

touched by every season.

Bowed with gratitude as it bore the fruits of labour.

An umbrella under the scorching sun.

It saw time on wings fly by with the flavour

of life that had lingered on since the story of the seed begun.

Nothing is permanent as they say.

I wonder if it could have been an untrue lump.

As autumn leaves are swept in on a nostalgic day,

I peep outside where a few birds still chirp around the wounded stump.

Can we ever solve the riddle?

We create and uproot without a piece of shame.

We believe that nothing is here to stay as we accept to be a part of the puzzle.

In the game that we have crafted, who has the strength to take the blame?