Diadem of Dust (Poem-18)

"The greatest victory is that which requires no battle."

- Sun Tzu

This part of the forest is

Much too quiet tonight

To the majestic old noctuid, though, clinging on to life,

It's no new sight.

It rests near a pinecone, on a tall tree branch

As usual, and waits for its

Instincts to drive it to

Claim morsels that may fit.

Below its branch, 

Moonlight glinting in its eyes,

A young wild rat emerges from the bushes and

Out of hunger, sighs.

The pinecone quickly senses 

Something off, however,

And truly so, because it sees, staring back,

A pair of red eyes quiver.

The wild rat makes its way over

A carelessly thrown matchbox 

In dry litter, and slowly and steadily

Up the tree, to the scared pinecone it walks.

He triumphantly places his grown nails on

The ill fated pinecone, but just over it

He sees that, quite to his pleasure

A little beyond him, an old moth patiently sits.

Greed manifests 

As he drools onto his paws,

And he decides to spare the pinecone;

He gently lets it roll off, and watches as it falls.

However, using its newfound life

The pinecone rolls further, and

It bumps into the discarded matchbox

And halts, angling up to the old moth's land.

The rat can already taste the old moth

But decides to lunge for the kill 

For good measure, however

It reaches the moth, and fate does it ill.

The moth feels its ill intent, 

And suddenly flutters, flying upwards

Which startles the rat, who also happens to,

Owing to his drool, slip, and fall downward.

Fate displays its twisted humor

As the rat plunges down, directly onto

The very pinecone that it spared;

The rat flails, as the pine stabs right through.

In its final moments, the rat's paw

Lashes against the unfulfilled matchbox

And alas! Sparks shoot out

And an ochre flame caresses the pine and the box.

The thrill of the moment almost

Revives the old moth's spirit and might

And brings back its mirth, its will,

And, its pride.

Now, excited from the

Short dance with the devil,

The moth decides to fly down and hover over

The defeated rat, and proudly revel.

Just then, the moth catches a glimpse

Of the most beautiful yellow light 

That he'd ever seen, and he's put in a trance,

And towards the bright ochre, he channels his flight.

As he inches closer, 

And as the warmth caresses him,

He forgets everything he has learned and

Mesmerized, flies into the fiery spin.

He's burned to a crisp, of course

But at least he remained awestruck till the very end;

The flame, the real victor, 

Engulfs the pinecone, the rat and the owlet.

Later, though

It too, fizzles out,

And the fresh ash emerges

Is he the victor? There's no doubt.

In a night, or two,

A gust of wind disrupts the quiet forest

Putting the ash to rout, and 

Victorious, demands its crest.

Moments later, however,

When the forest settles,

The silence is back, and 

It's deafening, as usual.

- Armaan Kothare