The Truth!

How many lassoes as a noose,
will suffice,
to drag me up the hill;
to follow the beckoning mountain’s echo?

Will those treacherous shores, ravines,
make me stout - to hop and skip by;
to reach the top, and drink
the sweet nectar of repose?

Are the mountains: noble or rouges,
and which trail will herald my advent?
Will I be among the chosen few
to view the Apostolic dome?

Why are some born in Spring to sigh!
While we, waywards,
found the wand of life
tap us, even in Autumn’s gusty blows?

When the sun sets - does it ponder
to delay its end?
Or, extends to think of another dawn,
brimming with hope?

When I finally rest –– even before that ––
will the quiz be solved?
In search of that Truth;
how many wavered lines and half-truths
will I have to grope....?

Geeta Chhabra