Those swans of Yeats

Imagine a man walking through some forest land – right beside a lake with numerous issues in hand. He walks and encounters a rare beautiful sight - A number of swans swimming to his delight. He counts them till 59 and then they flew away. Was it in real or was it his head’s take. For nineteen years he saw those swans. For nineteen autumns they became his balms. But then he underwent some self – introspection. His head did a strange inspection.

In all these years, his life had changed. His youth, his life and everything around had been roughly ranged. The world was decaying – so was his heart. The passion and energy –  all had faced time’s dart. But the swans were intact – wild and free. They still were youthful – in love, with spree. They were well coupled – together forever.  Time’s wrath upon them – oh no, never.

It is in just that one moment where the water was still. It is then that he saw sky in water’s mill. The time had frozen for that moment. There they were – the beauty and its mysterious scent. Despite of all those years, they were the same – young, beautiful and always playing their youth games. But the man had grown old – and expected an end of him soon. But this beauty was a precious boon.  yet he had observed the fate of such boons. They have the habit of leaving at some or the other noons. Who knows they were planning to leave right at that very moment. After all, it is for all that they were sent.  What if one fine day he woke up only to know – that there are no more swans – at his door. In pain he went – right at that thought. But it was due – the time had taught.

Were those swans real or mere his fascination? After all the beauty’s description was his creation. Who knows if swans symbolized his heart’s pursuits. His unfulfilled love or decisions so duel, The theme still was doings of time. The beauty that was stationary and trespassers on the wagon of time, To stop at a spot was simply not an option. The choices and feelings were all in auction.

Or maybe those swans were various moments of his life. Those times when he was out of strife. And here in present those things  created a picturesque for him. Passing through his eyes , at time’s whim. He wanted to have them all – forever for his own self. But he knew – time couldn’t be kept at shelf. The feelings and moments were bound to fly off. Like that very moment where he suddenly was pulled out of his memory strophe.  

(based upon the poem 'wild swans at coole' by 'William Butler Yeats')

 Mystical Wanderer