By Archit Potnis
They started off quite well, I heard
Inching through a cavernous plateau;
Dampened by gusts of doubt
And mocked by unforgiving men
As days turned into weeks and months had gone by
Yet somehow they stood,
Behold!
¡Es ese hombre!”, one yelled.
“We’re in this all because of him!” he stridently said
As if that man were some Aristarchus of Samos himself,
As if he was the epicentre
Of Everything —
That the sun, wind and gravel were all controlled by him;
The abyss soon engulfed the yeller.
They continued on the path less taken,
The air heavy with words unspoken;
Until a young man in black
Just had to spit his fair share of tack:
“Fate and chance, fate and chance
Are the destroyers of all things
Look how much ill luck
Only to me they bring!”
And he too did not last.
Ahead marched only two,
The trials and tribulations they faced
Only grew
Till old Mr. Pelligrini
Succumbed to his knees,
And said, “Stop, please!
Let not my despair, false hopes and wretched dreams
Unmake what is left of your creed.
Our perilous predicament — it’s all because of me!”
And he passed.
Now only the last man was left-over,
He was good, and tall and strong and broad-shouldered
But here he was — crumpled, crying, almost over;
Undeterred still, the heart of fire
Mustered up some courage
And leaped over ONE LAST BOULDER.
Then, like a tower of victory
He looked down from the top to see
His journey at last,
And the faces of the fallen men:
For he was the only one to last.
His secret, I was told —
“HE BLAMED NOBODY.”