If God Sends My Maa For A While!
I shall lay my head on her knees
Believing that God must have cured her arthritic joints in heaven,
Then she will brush my hair with her fingers
And I shall tell her all my soul suffered from;
I shall complain of the bouquet of roses
That pricked my hands despite the silk-ribbon
And scotch-tape woven around it carefully;
I shall tell her the tricks of the winds
Blowing roughly on me leaving all others
And of clouds that shower benign rain
On all others leaving me,
Though I stand under them with a bowl
In my hands raised skywards
Which stays ...
To The Descending Sun!
Why art thou pale
and sad and sick...
carrying no happy thought with thee...
why lost thy vigor
and zeal and zest
dark and deep
but mixed with somber evening shine
like a death-bed patient's parting smile