Poetry | The Snail


Sometimes, the problem may not be that you are small. This is the way of the world. There has always been big and small. Weak and strong. Rich and poor, and most of the time you have no say in which pool you are tossed. Wade through tar and tears and blood and all the way you will come through, or not, but a hell of a journey you will make and you will enjoy every step like no one else, but remember, no matter how small you think you are, and all around you are giants. If you want to climb up, keep your eyes where they belong. Don’t go forward looking at your feet.

Audio Podcast

The Poem | The Snail

A snail one day got stuck
under a big pile of leaves—
well-wet to hold the rain above
too wet to suck the mud beneath.
The road seemed dark and way too long;
belief was all it took to take on,
between a crawl and one more crawl
ages would rise and ages fall.

Too dark to see the way out there—
the snail started counting the leaves.
Maybe, if one by one it shed,
the lonely land of shades, it’d leave.

Ten hundred leaves said “Those Beneath”;
another thousand said “The Rest”
Reaching to those that stood on top;
maybe, it reached out to the best.
all named or nameless leaves were put
resting on top of little snail;
with industry, it dodged them all—
one leaf was what in there was left,
to breathe, so deeply it inhaled;
so close to spit the mud below,
and clean like whales, it showed to all.

Poor snail for long the eye above
could see a foot heading its way.
Ten thousand steps it took it up
crushing the leaves and all below
was a giant couple of steps away.
Too late for it to hide or rush;
it stayed ignorant, anyway.
A moment just before the crush,
the snail teethed out of the last leaf its head
a gnawing shadow above it grew—
it looked up;
it was already too late.

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