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
4 comments:
Beautiful...! simply amazing...!! I think when the words come from within, they touch the souls...! Here are some words which came to my mind after reading this...
From now on, through his senses, the world she will feel;
The way through her, he felt, as a child little.
Was part of her life: The train whistles, the crowds so dense;
In his face much tired, the routine, will she sense.
In a park, when he’ll stroll - her habit once;
Vibrant flowers, she will see, in his fresh countenance.
She has made friends with the pain, it’s in her heart, so deep;
Through his eyes, she feels, now her dreams will leap.
Will smear her dream, he knows, a tear in his eye;
For this one reason, he says, boys don’t cry!
!
such an excruciating cast and event and such an intense delivery...I couldn't help feeling stuck and sunk in my heart for a few long moments..
profuse emotions and if there be any solace, then such is this, a wonderful creation out of words
I salute!
and equally well followed up by Swanand..I feel overwhelmed here
Thanks so very much to both of you Swanand and Vinay. I have had the pleasure and good fortune to be with both of you. I have watched you guys very closely and thats the reason why your comments are so very important to me. Thanks very much again.
Pittu, first time when I read this poem, I started to post comment. Then I realized any artificial phrasing will be too lame to praise these purest feelings of yours. I was just stunned.
I read it again tonight. I am stunned again. I took a deep breath and started writing.
Just too beautiful and too pure!!!
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