A rising arrow,

An aimed dart.

A vicious blackhole,

An arduous task.

 

With all its might,

Rose the hand - Power within,

Gracefully nevertheless.

 

Slow yet thoughtful,

Skilfully aimed.

Delicate yet fierce,

All thought out in the head.

 

The armour glazed bright,

In the glaring sunlight,

But the arrow shone brighter,

Ready to show its might.

 

Leaving the bowstring,

In a blinking second,

It flew at its aim

And hit the bull's eye!

 

All the patience and the pain

Had now borne fruit -

What more could have asked the sky !

 

The rains came pouring,

As if to heal the hands.

To relieve the wounds ,

As if to further the joy!

 

Bliss Is all that time remembered then,

Because the arrow hit

Where it was meant to,

With God's grace upon it,

Which guided the little hand -

Like He had,

Forever.

Published by Smita Patil