Something called a throb
in the blood-smeared flesh of mother
is what makes the nursing hand
know of life's arrival
The water, air and feedings nourish
the infants to grow
like a plant with tender branches
of swinging hands as if
trying to catch the falling sky.
Homely soil spreads its carpet on ground
for them to stand up
to their feet to step into the lap of mother
to smother the suffocating puff
of the tornado of hard times
with a pail of labour pain;
invigorating words of father whip them
all along to step out further
and farther to scale some distances
of mountainous mounds of familial burden.
They make castles in childhood
to translate collective dreams into a reality
to get just a soothing shade
in the towny dusk of a gleaming city.
Bread and butter is simply the bait
that draws them closer
to a melange of mixed experiences
from the heavenly haven
of impeccable innocence.
The divinity in them gets eluded
as soul gets entrapped
into the mortal, mundane dungeon
where they are unable to see
the brighter lights.
Troubles keep pouring in
bringing rains flooding in their eyes
only to wash heart, clean and pure
carrying away the dirt
of stubborn urges and dormant impulses...