An Old Glass

Age was sinking fast –
layer by layer
from that worn-out table, where
An old glass
Holding up its fragile stand
keeping its past memory submerged
in those days of my childhood, She would
Grip her fingers around
the warm milk
and would stretch her hands out towards my mouth
to gurgle it lovingly
Luring me with toys, and lullaby

I plaint a sad cry –
The wherewithal of that touch

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