Man is the author of his own destiny.

His eyes are fixed on that patch of green
In the distance. Its rich colours
Excite him - he wishes it were his.
But it's not - it's his neighbours.
He looks again - he is mesmerized.
The brightness blinds him - he cannot look away.
He wants it. He wants it now -
He can't take it though -

It's his neighbour's.
He laments. Blames misfortune.

Around him are his own bushes -
Roses, lilies and chrysanthemums -
His own patch of green.
But he cannot see - you can't when you are blinded.

He mourns and laments at his misfortune.
If only, if only - he says.

His obsession blinds him to the beauty

Of his own patch of land. He neglects it.

The grass grows dry and shrivels up.

Plants wither away and die.

Weeds begin to take over the land

Where flowers should have grown.

Bushes start sprouting thorns

That turn hard and sharp - in self defence –

Now, they wound him.
He cries out in pain.
He looks down at his feet - for the first time.
He is surrounded by thorny bushes.
- You are hurting me - he screams.
Blood trickles down their twigs -
- the bushes remains helpless and silent.
He has more reason to complain.

His cries and laments get louder.........

His eyes settle – once again – on that distant spot.

On that patch of green – that can never be his.

It’s his neighbour’s.

Time – the silent witness – passes him by.

Should I pity such a one?

I could perhaps find in my heart, the mercy -

To feel sorry for him.
But when I think of the grass on his patch

That thirsted for attention, then succumbed;
The little saplings that struggled - in vain -

To grow, to flower, to fruit –

Then gave up -
- then my heart aches,
and my throat chokes up
And my eyes cry blood

For those that did not have a chance –

Then I am convinced that this man deserves no mercy.
He is the author of his own destiny.