Birth Number 33

His right leg was knocked
And he sprang up
Soft was the touch
An enquiry so mild
“Is this birth number 33”?
That milky white face
Older than all the hills
A kind of struck him
As if this was the illumination
He has been invoking for
Luggages were kept under
And there followed a discussion
A manless wife
An issueless mother
But a gutsy maternal grandmother
An unvited brain haemorrage
And there was sitting
A widow on the birth
That never imagined road accident
An her only daughter
Who read Bewoulf to Woolf
Left behind memories
And a young son
A room of hushing silence
For ten years she lived at a shrine
Cutting off all her relations
Praying in the court of that holy Saint
Brought to the threshold
Her man’s a little elongated survival
Loss of all the relations
Loss of of home and her adress
Loss of all the belongings
Loss of land
Now more does she labour
Peddling things
Near the shrine
Finding her lost ones
In the prayers of others
For the sick and the possessed
He too had his own tale of struggle
Wanting for an expression
Lost in the dried singing tears
In the porch of her eyes
His words and phrases choked up
Her gargling pain and plight
Cleared his vision and insight

One Comment Add yours

  1. honeynafs says:

    Your each and every words has feelings of pathos for that old lady. Brave she is. Very touching. Keep posting such amazing works. I love reading it.


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