I waited all day and night for just one word of love.
I waited for a week,
I waited for a month.
A whole year.
But it never came.
The cold winter nights came
And dragged their feet in the wet windy darkness.
All night my nose to the cold window pane,
Tearful and heavy hearted.
Night turned into day,
As the mellow beams of the young sun
Kissed the bedewed garden slabs
And shivered into thousand smithereens of sparkling candle lights,
Waking the flowers from their slumbrous torpour.
I watched the tiny robin skip perkily, chasing butterflies
And squirrels scuttling deftly on the wooden fence.
The same old silence. Heavier, more unbearable.
A garland of led. I slept.
Shaken by the old wise man,
I woke up trembling like from a nightmare,
On fire, burning with despair and shame.
His last words resounded like a whip on my conscience:
Child, life is like mathematics.
You get from it what you put into it.
You put nothing in, you get nothing back.
Mohabeer Beeharry's Other Poems
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