A Sense of Yearning

Consanguinity has shown its most beautiful face In yours, Mother, that is the only face of God That I have seen and believed in. However dark the night may be In your bower there is always light. Over me, always, was the better blanket; The unburnt bread always on my plate. Weird were your ways of saying how Unconditional your care is; Your love unquantifiable. But wounds are destined to efface; After the last scar smiles;  The way back always ends  In your assuasive embrace; No matter how long it takes, To you I shall return, just like how The evening bird After a day's carefree wandering Finally realizes how dark it is getting, And flies back home.

There is nothing more serene and soothing than the thought of returning home, after a rough day...... The day was spent walking on the fire-bed, with feet that were accustomed to the cushioned bed of wet morning grass.... A hundred times he lost his way... A hundred times he had to stumble over camouflaged obstacles... A hundred times his thirst was fooled by the mirages... And only when he heard his fate tired of laughing at his helplessness, he found his way before him..... With dusk dawning upon the patient trees, he walked back towards home, tired and happy....

They watched the God and his poignant smile And the face of disaster, so cruel, so brutal. Floating corpses their eyes met with With the helpless wails of a hundred voices Tearing the heavens ruthlessly apart To find a scintilla of mercy; To kindle the last drop of tear. Through the hungry waters they struggled forward Pulling bodies up, eyes soaked in fear. A strange shade of fear that was; A fear of finding a known face... And the sky kept rumbling over them; Its satiation being far from over; While the little girl groped For her mother's cold fingers; While the helpless man howled over His son, cold and pale.

I watch you smile in insouciance While I count the number of days. You, my child, have grown up in unneeded haste; While I was left back, like the last leaf Dangling from the tree older than you and me. Never did I notice when You had released my finger; I was too engrossed in the Elysian beauty Of your first walk, on the tender grass bed. Ours is the richest form of consanguinity, That I hope, son, you still remember. You may need me again someday, I know. But today, laugh with me my child. Live with me the numbered life I cling to. I'm growing old and weary like time And I might not answer you son, The next time, if at all, you cry out for me.