The Sweating Tortoise

This is not a poem,

And yes, it is a poem.

This is not a poem,

That fits the readers yearn.

Yet, it is a poem,

Meant for the weary soul,

Meant for a panting heart,

One like mine,

On who words should not please.


Inside me is a tortoise,

Walking in the dry desert in search of an oasis,

Where it can get a drink,

One that will fill its need.

Inside me is a prey,

Running curiously at its highest pace,

Yet covers but an invisible space,

For its curiosity is really a dire need,

And it’s need is just but a drop.


Everyday he pants,

Heading in the same direction he started from yesterday,

And tomorrow,

He shall head towards where he started from today,

Round and round it goes,

For inside him, he goes forward,

Inside him, he nears the stream.

Yet, they both never meet.

Until he gradually sleeps.


My Tortoise, would not see,

For deserts are nothing more than open fields,

Where all views are the same.

And forward, and backward – an unchanged direction,

But it shall not seize its yearn,

In the hope of the glory that shall descend,

From an inner within, the assurance arises,

Before it sees its own end, it shall surely be,

That my Tortoise shall drink to its fill!

For my Tortoise is ME!

2 thoughts on “The Sweating Tortoise” by Levuz (@Levuz)

  1. Vanessa's writings (@Vanessa)

    The sweating tortoise, a beautiful slap, caveat emptor. Only you Levuz, only you.
    Great analogy.

    1. Levuz (@Levuz)

      @vanessa, Lol!
      Only God o, my sister, Only GOD.
      My tortoise is me o.

      Thanks a lot for reading and understanding.

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