The Ocean Knows
The ocean knows that waves have no identity,
no name to carry, no past to hold,
only the rhythm of endless motion,
rising, falling, fierce yet cold.
The waves do not ask where they began,
nor where the shoreline waits to end –
they dance to the whispers of the wind,
letting go, with no need to pretend.
Some waves are gentle, a quiet embrace,
touching the sand with a lover’s grace.
Some roar like thunder, wild and untamed,
crashing on rocks, yet never blamed.
As long as the moon pulls the tide,
as long as the sky meets the deep,
the ocean hums its ageless song,
singing of secrets it dares not keep.
The power of thought is much the same,
a wave that rises from silent space,
it curls, it crashes, then fades away,
leaving no trace, not a single place.
Yet we, like fools, try to name the sea,
try to own the waves, to shape their course,
but the water laughs, untouched, unchained,
flowing forever with effortless force.
Oh, if only we, too, could be so free,
to rise without fear, to fall without pain,
to know that the journey is never ours,
but the ocean’s will, the call of rain.
For the ocean knows, as it always has,
that waves have no identity –
only the gift of endless movement,
a whisper of eternity.
What the Goa Beaches Teach Me
The waves hum stories of rise and fall,
whispering that healing is not a race at all.
The shore does not chase the retreating tide,
it lets it go, with arms open wide.
The golden sands, warm beneath my feet,
remind me that grounding makes me complete.
No storm can erase what the earth still holds,
no past can define how the future unfolds.
The sun dips low, yet promises to rise,
teaching me hope through painted skies.
Darkness may come, but it never will stay,
the dawn always finds its own way.
The sea breeze carries my worries afar,
telling me scars do not make me less than I am.
Like shells that the ocean polishes bright,
I am softened by time, still shining with light.
The fishermen sail with trust in the sea,
knowing the tide may not always agree.
So I learn to flow, to drift, to be,
without fearing what is meant for me.
Goa’s beaches tell me, loud yet still,
that healing is found in surrender, not will.
Like the waves, like the sky, like the sand so free,
I am whole, I am moving, I am meant to be me.
