At the canteen table we sit
like the arrows in a quiver.
Leaning in different directions
against the circle of truth.
Various things we talk
and fragment each others opinions.
We talk big things
Good, Bad and God.
Each day we start off on a similar premise
but reach a different shade of conclusion
As if we are going about a
single brush stroke each time.
At this rate when will the painting be complete
on the canvas of time, always wetted
by the sea of past.
The present is a shoe lost to the sea
dangling for sometime on the waves of recent past
but quickly receding into the vastness.
What are we doing then at the table?
Just throwing stones as we walk past the sea
to create ripples that would reach
the things beyond our speech.