Through a familiar doorway, wearily I enter.
An alert pair of searchful eyes, on my countenance, does centre.
"Here comes my boy!" croaks a feeble throat ;
A year-long illness but deceives a merrier note.
A quivering hand attempts to convey a soulful of rejoice;
I greet the messenger, half way, sans a single noise.
There, on that solitary bed, a desolate present is cast;
T'is but a mere ash of a strongly incandescent past.
Now, my creator remains, but of bones, an ensemble;
An army of tears, in two youthful eyes, does assemble.
"Make a truce with thine eyes" comes the reply;
For my dearest, listen, boys don't cry.
I take her palm in mine, and share a loaf of hope;
For t'is the best medicine, against such a malady to cope.
I tell her stories of optimism, perseverance and courage;
Some humourous ones to spread a smile on her visage.
For some of my own stupid indiscretions, she generously giggles and laughs;
For one another such a bout, for days on she starves.
For these moments together, reality she forgets and I deny;
For I surely know, that boys don't cry.
But, whenever she contemplates on her life's immobile stage,
She feels like a bird, trapped in a demonic cage.
She remembers her offsprings as yet men to become;
She has to stand up for young daughters to welcome.
"Why me?" she asks in the most sorrowful accent.
I make her see patience in the realm of her present.
To the immatured young wailings, sermons of hope, I supply;
For I surely know, that older boys don't cry.
After a day of cries and laughs, dressed in a void attire;
I take my leave for the night to retire.
Then, stressed and weary, I elope with anxiety;
And then fervently ask, "Is this really me?".
Upon this, the kind old night mother,
gives me a reason, not to bother.
For, in these life's many vicissitudes, she says,
It's not for a man to be a hermit always.
For when the day opens with a wail and closes with a sigh,
Boys do cry, my dear, boys do cry!!
---Sauru
An alert pair of searchful eyes, on my countenance, does centre.
"Here comes my boy!" croaks a feeble throat ;
A year-long illness but deceives a merrier note.
A quivering hand attempts to convey a soulful of rejoice;
I greet the messenger, half way, sans a single noise.
There, on that solitary bed, a desolate present is cast;
T'is but a mere ash of a strongly incandescent past.
Now, my creator remains, but of bones, an ensemble;
An army of tears, in two youthful eyes, does assemble.
"Make a truce with thine eyes" comes the reply;
For my dearest, listen, boys don't cry.
I take her palm in mine, and share a loaf of hope;
For t'is the best medicine, against such a malady to cope.
I tell her stories of optimism, perseverance and courage;
Some humourous ones to spread a smile on her visage.
For some of my own stupid indiscretions, she generously giggles and laughs;
For one another such a bout, for days on she starves.
For these moments together, reality she forgets and I deny;
For I surely know, that boys don't cry.
But, whenever she contemplates on her life's immobile stage,
She feels like a bird, trapped in a demonic cage.
She remembers her offsprings as yet men to become;
She has to stand up for young daughters to welcome.
"Why me?" she asks in the most sorrowful accent.
I make her see patience in the realm of her present.
To the immatured young wailings, sermons of hope, I supply;
For I surely know, that older boys don't cry.
After a day of cries and laughs, dressed in a void attire;
I take my leave for the night to retire.
Then, stressed and weary, I elope with anxiety;
And then fervently ask, "Is this really me?".
Upon this, the kind old night mother,
gives me a reason, not to bother.
For, in these life's many vicissitudes, she says,
It's not for a man to be a hermit always.
For when the day opens with a wail and closes with a sigh,
Boys do cry, my dear, boys do cry!!
---Sauru
