But There Is Someone At The Door

Happily she chirps ” there is someone at the door.
“He has come”, in her heart a tumultuous uproar.
Frantically she rushes , wiping her hands on a napkin.
With a sad air , from a tree watches a tiny robin.

Someone screams , “oh dad, you are indeed such a bore”.
The bore sits in the balcony hugging this memory of yore.
With a hot cup of kehwa trying to warm his heart cold.
Eyes fixed on an atrophied Chinar leaf which has turned gold.

Sadly , he says , “he will not come back, he has gone.
It is no point trying to cling to this hope forlorn.”
“Do not say so , it’s his birthday, a new hopeful dawn.
Remember, fifteen years back this day ,he was born.”

Wiping her hands the fond mother runs towards the lawn.
In denial mode, absolutely refusing to believe he has gone.
Wistfully , he looks at the lonely willow bat in the corner .
And then, slowly casts an intensely sad look upon her .

On a spineless stem , a primrose wilts, an anemone moans
And a bunch of daffodils discreetly hide their groans.
Come spring, in his garden the Narcissus will bloom,
But to his heart , he will still hug the endless gloom.

On a leafless tree a tiny bird sings its autumnal dirge.
Grave looking clouds on the blue immensity converge.
With a sombre air they watch the mother at the door.
In the hunched husband’s heart there is an anguished roar.

A flamboyant bird, guiltily hides itself inside its plumage.
Ah, a cruel gust of wind had removed that happy page
When this family were such a riotously happy threesome
And every day and every night was a melodic song to hum .

Two years back, a dark cloud had wiped out the sunshine .
The mother still believes her son will come back to shine.
With one resounding roar of the gun he had fallen silent.
That loud sound alas, had crushed all those sounds vibrant .

His gobra, like the daffodil, had hasted away so soon.
Sadly he sits, wasting away, looking at the ageless moon.
Every day and every night he sits in his balcony chair.
Seething at life’s hammer blow so cruel and so unfair.

Every day , and every night she prepares his favorite dish.
In his overburdened heart, the father hides his anguish.
Happily she chirps,” yes, look,look, he is at the door”
He takes a sip of kehwa, his heart pierced to the core.

Ceaselessly he listens to the cacophony of the silence .
Ah, so tired of lamenting a long life’s evanescence .
The chill has settled in his heart, and the guns still roar
But the mother in a frenzy, still keeps rushing to the door.

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