Jacketed in a polythene cover My first volume of poetry lies on the table. Taking it into his hands Caressing it gently Running his thumb over the edges And sniffing at the new pages and the un-dried ink, My boy asked me: 'Have you done it all alone papa?' I nodded in assent Airing a sense of pride and achievement. 'Impossible,' he said And ran away without looking back. I laughed at his innocence.
Then I turned to my Caesarian issue With maternal pleasure. It reminded me of the day When my mother handed me my son Decked up in clothes, for the first time, Saying: 'He resembles your wife'
Now The book appeared to me In a different hue altogether.
