5200 weeks

 

5200 Weeks

5200 weeks,

Is what the lucky ones possess,

To live and love and seek,

To learn the truth or to achieve success,

 

As infants we begin this cyclic affair,

For 700 weeks we are blissfully unaware,

Under our parents care,

With sincere admiration and prayer,

A naïve innocence and an affirmative flair,

But when the world is laid bare,

Our beliefs we forswear,

And to defy we dare.

 

As youth we dive deeper in this ocean,

Our days are full of commotion,

Our families are at remotion,

Our nights are full of emotion,

But over the next 400 weeks, we must challenge every notion,

Of society, identity and devotion,

But devoted we must be, and also in constant motion,

For success there is no instant potion,

And failure leads to societal demotion.

 

With the coming of middle age,

We become camels,

We struggle with responsibilities and obligations,

For 2000 weeks we struggle with work,

And somewhere we realise,

“This isn’t going like it was supposed to be!”

And then we meet the world again in it’s entirety,

Not just in love and in family,

Its terror, its beauty and its absurdity,

The scared resort to piety,

Or maybe they are the smart,

For when our close ones start to depart,

Or when everything starts to fall apart,

It is hard to console our hearts.

But anyway, from here we emerge,

Shackled or broken,

Comfortable or resolved,

Regressed or evolved,

Guilty or absolved,

Depending on how involved,

We were in the self or the world.

 

Again in our old age, the lucky ones have 2000 weeks until their end,

For some to wish to comprehend,

For others who wish to pretend,

They have their accumulated wealth to spend,

Those I don’t wish to condescend,

Because this is the time we don’t have people who depend,

But to the truth seekers I recommend:

From a lion to a camel and now again a child,

The different elements of life you must blend,

The intense, the savage and also the mild,

A brilliant metamorphosis that transcends,

And constantly creates like nature undefiled,

The old man becomes the baby.

A genuine naivete that is hardened by the world,

And a total disregard for societal projections,

To them, the others are in contradiction,

Who are driven entirely by wanting succession,

Of their own conception,

Formed by self-deception,

Who oppose invention.

Or maybe they fear mortality?

For mortality is terrifying,

For us maybe, but even more so for others,

Is concern love or a shackle?

When we lose our worldly charm,

It is a cause for alarm,

Or maybe joy,

For that deathly calm,

The fear of ultimate harm,

That plagued us since before our descent,

That ‘familiar ache’ that was ever present,

Isn’t necessarily a cause for lament,

(As long as your 5200 weeks leave you content).

-Chinmay Sharma