Theme: Introspection

When Dreams Died ...

Her palms felt sticky with muck,
She rummaged more, and more'
It was not really a pile of garbage;
Though it smelt worse.
It resembled ash.
She picked up pieces of flesh;
Blackened. Half-burnt, cinder-like,
Almost nauseous.

She smiled at the sight,
A sad, melancholic half-smile;
Refused to leave her lips.
The small rag she picked up next,
Made her smile a little more;
More tears rolled out of her eyes.

The gaunt, bearded man;
Felt his chin, craggy and rough,
Burdened by a waif, his grandchild.
Working away on his noisy sewing machine
He had fed a family, struggling to survive.
Yesterday, hidden behind a large sewage pipe;
Miserable and powerless,
He saw his house turn to ashes.

The girl was away at school;

The sharp steel had glinted,
And so had those eyes.
He hated the day, the stars
When Abba had called in the maulvi.
What was it that took him so close to death?

The child returned;
To a gaping hole,
In the midst of nowhere.
She had tried to sniff,
For a sign of her parents'

The rag had brought the memories back,
With a reminder of the present.
The girl, alone;
Was his blood, his child's offspring
His child,
Whom he had watched becoming a memory'

The girl stood up and turned;
Her eyes, big and blank,
Tore his heart'
For he had seen,
Maybe even felt;
Her dreams dying.


More By  :  Roshni Sengupta

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