I shall lay my head on her knees
Believing that God must have cured her arthritic joints in heaven,
Then she will brush my hair with her fingers
And I shall tell her all my soul suffered from;
I shall complain of the bouquet of roses
That pricked my hands despite the silk-ribbon
And scotch-tape woven around it carefully;
I shall tell her the tricks of the winds
Blowing roughly on me leaving all others
And of clouds that shower benign rain
On all others leaving me,
Though I stand under them with a bowl
In my hands raised skywards
Which stays dried up;
I'll feel her smoothing my hair
I'll feel relieved, and her sweetness will remove
The wrinkles of my crumpled soul successfully…
I shall feel an urge to tell her
That I miss the apple-jam she used to prepare for me
In a sauce-pan,
And that I have left eating the soaked and peeled off
Almonds and raisins with a glass of milk;
I shall clarify that I am telling her all
Because I don’t tell
Such things to anyone
Not because they won’t listen to this
But because I have lost my tantrums wild
Somewhere in the fields of my childhood;
I shall ask her
Does she listen to my voice while I recite prayers
On her grave?
Does she see when my brother removes the frozen candle wax?
And washes the tomb-stone?
Or showering petals on her earthly-bed?
Yes, I shall tell her
That cooking shows are no more interesting now;
That all the tragic tunes interpret my heart
And all the sad songs sing of my soul;
But, will it be wise to tell her all
That might cause pain to her?
I shall have no idea of her allowed duration with me
So, I won’t tell her, or ask from her anything
But this, that we all are settled in life,
And that I am happy
And then I shall smile
as big as a smiley-sticker, ear to ear
and I won’t let her know
-
-
-
that my pen bleeds still…
