where you left your future tucked between small fragrant basil leaves.
It took more than a week maybe, for signs of life to emerge
and another few more days for the first lot of tiny black dots to
appear on the ground, next to the basil leaves.
Careful examination soon finds them, brown furry commas
moving placidly, chewing calmly while sprinkling more
black specks, now in various sizes, some bigger than before.
Your trek to a new life, to create another chapter, another perpetuity,
an arduous attempt at survival must regretfully end here.
The basil too needs to thrive and fate favours the green.
But this botched attempt at continuity could mean our
failure, our miscalculation, more than yours.
Would our progress on life’s journey be somewhat
thwarted, without ugly fuzzy brown commas?