One fine summer,
A chalice was made
Out of the wood of mahogany.
Cried out many.
Thinly crafted along its body,
Visible enough, there were dents.
Little did any other know,
They carried pertinence.
The earthen pot which was
Used to create the chalice,
“So what if you’re of mahogany,
The world knows you’re dented!”
The chalice, which only knew
The elixir of orange to be true,
Had its first sop,
Of the elixir of blue.
Much later, to the chalice’s dismay,
Some champagne and scotch glasses huddled.
“It’ll never be one of us”, they said.
The chalice felt rising up,
The new elixir of red.
While other receptacles
Loved soaking up many potions,
The chalice would make
Its blue, red and green elixirs turn,
Into the colours orange and yellow,
To osmose to those in need,
Rendering it barren and hollow.
During its journey across the seas,
In search of the legendary,
Potion of Achroma,
The chalice stumbled upon
Benevolent urns that looked at it with awe.
The chalice was intrigued,
And wondered what they all saw.
The chalice then felt and understood,
During its voyage,
Got studded in its mysterious dents,
Were gems so good,
They made it sparkle with brilliance.
A few of the generous urns,
Could manage with their transcendence,
To fill the chalice with hints of
Elixirs of purple and pink,
That made the chalice forgo
Its desire to sink.
An altruistic lad,
In a world full of greed and malice,
Looked into a mirror and saw,
The empty chalice.
by Siddhesh Shimpukade