Forrest Gump

Forrest Gump

In a quiet corner of a cinema’s programme,
where the screen flickers like a summer window,
a story unfurls with a heart that beats so true—
the gentle march of a man, that Forrest Gump.

His voice, a soft whistle on a balmy afternoon,
speaks of a life that is colourless and yet full;
of a pond where the lilies float, of a cross‑river hill,
and of Scouts that a bewildered boy should ever know.

There were war flags that trussed his tiny frame,
and then a lorry’s rumble, a basketball that spun,
every chapter a fair of miracles and missteps,
always the same quiet truth: “I didn’t know what the point was, but it didn’t matter.”

In the dusty streets of life, the old man walks,
his simple answer each time that music earns a rhythm:
“Life is like a box of chocolate – you never know which bite you’ll get.”
So he walks, hoping to meet, finding the kindest place in the world.

With each slow run, he steals Time’s small, weary glitches,
mending the gap in his own grainy memories,
he throws back the “bad” game to the scratch of a moonlit night,
and he roams from the sunflower to the low‑grade school.

The world may have worn him out by the age of 35,
but he keeps going at the speed of a dream,
like a child who topples a boat in a pool – not in despair but in love.

Forrest Gump is, in the end, a drama that is simple,
his walk a reminder that every moment can be a slice of hope,
and that each perk in every simple weight carries a becoming of unimaginable faith.