Living in the area of greyness,
We rarely find,
The darkest black or the purest white,
To be the background of the sprinkled gold.
Once in a while, we look up,
To find the whiteness of the clouds,
Floating across the pool of blue.
We wonder at the dancing network of light
playing the patterns of life,
With its tangled nervous system.
And lose ourselves in the puffed up clouds that melt
to form a rainbow.
Suddenly be aware of thoughts that remain stacked one
upon other,
Like those tissue papers arranged in the stack,
used to
wipe off dirt,
And then, to be thrown away.
We hurry off,
Move on fretting about an unsettled issue.
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