the point of being born

Decipher, the chronicles of her dense secrets,

layered and knotted, like the string of attachment

which bastes her with her child, now born, looks like a pink

infantile field rat. It rests underneath a tree.

A full moon tree, now that it is night, curls its leaves.

>

She cannot understand how she can conjure alms,

helps or a mere hand to make her stand and move

towards the village hospital, where the doctor,

young and nervous, must be sleeping; as no one

believes they can live once they pays a visit

in that place. Still she knows death does not come often,

to one who seeks, the life is going to flourish,

she will live. A cluster of fireflies swarms.

In their pristine sounds one can hear chants,

“Mercy unto you, and peace, and love, be multiplied.”(Jude 1:2)

Senselessness prevails, for the time being. She sleeps.

The man of this story, still, is traveling

by a train, late than the schedule. Aware.

A kaleidoscope envisages vistas,

of a village, dark, cloudy, giving one more birth.

© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar