In the garden of time stands a tree,
With leaves like wide palms, reaching out to the sea.
It acts like high-definition screen,
Playing every life and every could-have-been.
Look up at the figs, hanging green,
The brightest of choices yet to be seen. 
Higher still, where the air is a song,
Are the fruits of the spirit, vibrant and strong.
To live for the poetry, the rhythm, the rhyme,
To capture a photograph, freezing a time.
A musician is just a curator of the city-lit night,
Capturing all the unsaid feels in a song made of light.
Then there’s the athlete, the heat, and the turf,
The grit of the game and the swell of the surf.
Success hangs like gold, gleaming and high,
While failures are rain clouds that pass through the sky.
The branches reach out to travel and roam,
Finding new cities to briefly call home.
You’ll find the soul drifting where the air smells sweet,
In a bakery corner or a summer day street.
Checking the bookstore for a name they might know,
While at coffee shops, the neon dreams glow.
The ink is the archive, the drift of the mind 
The sonder in faces we leave far behind.  
And w is the static, the soft, golden blur 
of a world that remains in a constant refer. 
So let the seasons shift and the timeline fly  
there’s a world full of figs to pick ‘till the colours run high.
By Jigisha Motghare,  Bhavans BVM, Civil Lines