That toddler, do you see him? His past has been
played out by cramps of obsolete prophecies,
Or perhaps by the drama of epics concocted…
Let him walk, oh! Let his mothers lock horns,
And inform me, if you still have my number,
who took him… a wonder above another!
Let him grow and smile to a multi-shaded lie,
Trace the right end of the rope, if it not burns!
Let him play with dolls, if time allows him to
skip two-time meals from two-time women!
Let him face wounds, learn to heal himself,
assault through language, mar down tears!
Let him prioritize, note what he chooses though,
(A placenta or that very thread of summer love?)
And allow him to believe in his own choice,
Let years pass and keep a track, if ‘choices’
get replaced by ‘beliefs’, don’t squeal or writhe
if they don’t… the monopoly of personal onus!
He shall know it all, the footsteps creeping in,
discomforting the warmth of his grave, the
chants shall cleft by a facadé you know by
the name of ‘blood’… when the rain comes,
and his remains dissolved, let him hear the song
of love, about things he chose not to believe in!
Let him see if blood pumps in him the elixir of
salvation, if they still take his name in love…
when the roses turn dry, and footsteps abscond,
yet fresh tears don’t seem to leave, he shall know
he lost it… but, but, that’s all in good time!
Look at him, how he plays the Blind Man,
there he falls, there he falls, there he falls!