Strange is the story of life:
begins with the prattle
ends with the babble
as people grow from green to yellow
limbs crack and wither, memory
plays truant-they know not what they do,
take solitary walks
with their Maker
to relive memories, lean on the
raw and green for reassurance
of their identity. The turmoiled mind
fails to defend what has been,
hope and joy like enemies betray
when their power to scream decays.
Are they specimens for pity and
sympathy? No, when our need for
them is past their prime, their need
for us begins, they lean on us
to straighten their backs.
Let’s stretch forward to hold them
with love, care and patience.
that's the language they understand
that's the language they understand
to crown their memories.
sabita sahu
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ReplyDeleteNice poem with insight. The exit from the world, the time of it when it comes, needs a reaffirmation for the goer from the waive-off-ers that the little beautiful world he had built around on this planet would stay intact; and they who he is leaving behind for good would grow strong and take care of themselves like the way he did for them when they were kids.Say in your silence, whisper into his ears--love you, good bye, I will take care of myself, of others in your absence. Make sure the communication is not lost in your confusion during the final moments in the melee of pity, pain, sorrow, remembrance and prayers. Keep the silent conversation intact even when his faculties are waning weak. Nice poem.
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