Barren land, modern city

Do you ever think of the foreign countries, with their capitals in isolation?

Do you ever think how, in a barren oasis, there’s technology?

Or how there are the modern comforts in the middle of nowhere?

Like Windhoek in Namibia, it’s the beacon of civilization in barren lands.

People can live comfortably in an otherwise barren and hot and desolate country.

                Isn’t that a great contrast or what? It’s fascinating.

                It’s where people live, to defy what truly lies outside the boundaries of civilization.

Do you want to live where everything is safe, or do you want what reality has to offer?

Another thing I bet you don’t think of is how they govern. How do you govern isolation?

Those assorted cities strewn all over your country, miles and miles apart.

How do these governments unite the people, people who live life in different ways?

                      Makes you think, doesn’t it?

Sunflowers in Tuscany

She looked out and saw them, the field,

The golden field of sunflowers. Beautiful, like an angel’s resting place.

How they radiated, in the fields of Tuscany.

It was a sight to see for sure. One might have expected to be in Heaven,

for the sight was that radiant and beautiful.

On that sea of green, there was an island of sweet, pure gold.

The sunflowers were like an island in a magical land. A land of beauty, of magical radiance.

They swam on the green waves, masterfully, and beautifully.

On the island, they carefully caressed the land, blanketing them with the gentle love of a mother.

A mother who treated the land like it was her own child; it was a beautiful relation of nurturing it.

Looking at these sunflowers, one knew that they were in a land of joy.

A Tale of Two Legacies

They were once grand and mighty things, these monuments.

Vast, sprawling tributes to greatness

To mighty empires of the past

To rulers ruling over grand lands, with mighty armies to command.

Powerful tributes that demanded the utmost respect to the men who commissioned them.

All of these lands were of unfathomable power and bathed in history.

But now,

                Now,

                                Now they’re gone.

Lost. Lost beneath the sands of time.

For all of their past greatness, they no longer exist; they only exist in the annals of history.

Mighty empires and kingdoms sprawling from one continent to another, gone.

Consigned to memories, memories that will inevitably die out with the people who lived there.

Now? Those great cities are long gone,

The last of their citizens are buried beneath the ground, dead for ages.

The citizens of these populous cities inhabit the kingdom underground. Ruled by age.

Their once proud, grand, and prestigious monuments to their very existence have crumbled,

                Crumbled under the burden of ages never to be seen again.

Powerful symbols at the time, these monuments are mere relics.

Never forget them. They were once things of legend.

                But not today, not anymore.

The Walk of Life

His boots splashed in the middle of the puddles. It was a recent trend.

These rural roads had a lot of puddles. And the peace, oh the peace, as well.

That was the best part, the quiet joy of hiking

                by yourself, where nobody else had been.

The back roads were virgin lands-beautiful, and waiting to be explored.

Just looking at them was a sight to behold!

                Forests never walked in, their unassuming beauty never admired.

                Paths that no one had had the pleasure of walking down, at a leisurely pace.

                Of hills that nobody had anxiously climbed.

                Days that nobody had spent out on these lonely paths, the roads not taken.

It was pristine. The way it should be, really.

And that was the way the lone hiker liked it-nature, at its finest,

                and himself, being the only critic in the vast and open gallery.

                                The gallery that nature provided with its rich textures and colors.

Alone in it, submersed in it, engrossed in it.

It was glorious.

A far-flung Island

A young child will look at a map and ask,

                “Daddy, where is this place?”

                and will point to the location

                and get a response; “why, that’s the United Kingdom”

But he doesn’t look at the other places, the dots,

                the dots and the mere specks that nobody cares about.

The dots that represent those small islands

with their small populations, claimed by the giants.

Their beautiful waters. Their rugged landscapes.

                That nobody knows or cares about, outside of these islands.

They may be in the Atlantic. In the Indian Ocean. The South Pacific.

Isolated, and alone. A dot. A speck. A tiny dot.

Represented, without a good representation; they would revolt

                                if anyone outside knew who they were. Before laughing it off.

Did anyone ask how they felt about their places on the map(s), the world?

                                                No. Too much effort for little specks in the grand scheme of things.

               

So for now, these lonely islands will keep to themselves.

                            On the vast ocean.

                                                Alone. Adrift.

The writer

The writer sat down at his desk, ready.

Ready to write. Ready to create. Ready to inspire.

Ready to paint, to weave.

But first, what to do? How did he want to get started?

Would the worlds he was to dream up be vibrant and full of color?

Would the created lands be mythical and legendary?

Would they have dark secrets at their cores?

He would decide this. For he was a god. A god with magical powers.

A god of worlds yet imagined, woven, dreamt of.

                He was the person that could bring them to life. Create, if you will.

The characters, places, the events.

The legacies. The basis for one’s imagination.

                Oh the things he could do!