The Genuine Tragedy

I am not sure, 

if the man mows the grass,

or he mows himself. 

For the heart knows no reasons.

It itself is an-

extraordinary undertaking. 

Followed by the highly 

and lowly instances of oppositions and truths.

And while mowing the grass,

the man stumbles upon 'love'. 

Love is the only food, 

made without any recipes, he says. 

The mind echoes-

'Love is the abyss without any end'

'Love is the abyss without any end'.

Love is simply an error of disguise, 

you are everything and nothing, the grass says. 

The mind echoes-

'Who is to love if lover,

is the absolution of love itself'. 

Yet again, this is a genuine tragedy.

She was never to be.

While she was a person, 

she was just one. While afar-

she becomes the universe. 

The seen and unseen, 

The felt and un-felt. 

No more pretensions left. 

Just the mower and the mowed.

The heart echoes-

'This is a genuine bliss' 

'This is a genuine bliss' !!