Mother paints her face with tears
and hope as she stands at the brink of yesterday.
The hustling steps, beats,
the din of ambition have all died
into the receding past. His face withdraws
into the pale horizon; her hand waves till
it is caught in the dead inertia of her sadness.
Her eyes would stop bleeding, someday!
Waves of emotion yet
crash the rocky shores and recede
Tomorrow she would stand surrounded
by ceaseless vacuum; today is the day
of cognizance as she collects the petals
of memory in her withered hands.
Her half held thought escapes in the
vortex of spinning horizons. She attempts to tear
his face sewn deep, deep into her being. Fails!
Verses on the wall are
changing, soon his gods will be new.
Streaks of silver drop off the
reverberating skies. Will the monsoon bear
fruit this year?
The change was to come. Why?
Because her son had gathered clouds
of his dreams in his eager palm
and had flung them into his future.
She, his past was slow to react.