Guess

A Syllable of Uncertainty

In the dim‑lit corridors of the mind,
where thought tip‑taps the edges of doubt,
the whisper of a guess slides in—
a jaunty, half‑measured gambol of fate.

It is no timid footnote,
but a footnote of footnotes, the scholar’s licence to write a verse without full syllable.
A colour that has not yet been painted on the canvas;
a page that has not yet been turned.

A guess is the polite invitation
to a mystery’s door: “Come in, dear, but do not be certain.”
It smells of chalk on a blackboard and old books—
of librarians in winter coats, of corridors where footsteps echo.

It is the small, heart‑shaped notion held in a hand,
waiting for the secret answer to spill its (preferably) abbreviated truth.
A quick glance, a reckless calculation, a thousand hunches conjoined
in a blooming bouquet of grey, blushed ticking.

In English we say, “I’ll take a happy guess,”
and then we simply hope the facts will comply,
with no strings, no signatures, just a heart’s own bet.

The guess drifts like a pencil shy of triumph—
regardless of boldness, it never quite stands
in full armour; it sits in-between certainty
and the velvet cloister of unknown.

So here’s to the guess—cheers, you merry little fool—
for all your graph‑shaped chances, your scratch‑of‑a‑finger trills,
for rolling the dice inside an old brass map,
for letting hope unfurl, for daring us to stake a thought where we know nothing after.

In British pubs and quiet tea rooms alike,
the guess gathers, a hearty laugh in a stranger’s pocket,
and the world goes on, simply smiling at a kindly uncertain spark.