Not to have
A picture on the wall,
When you are winking and
peeping through all the slivers
of our existence
and keep coming on stray visits
to drown the present
and blur it,
of whatever tidings,
with your compassion face.
It is not lonely nights anymore
or silent summer afternoons,
The entire residue of time
is your haunting ground.
Come and go,
as and when you wish.
There is no dearth of tears
or remembrance,
We are ever ready
to open up,
to all your unannounced sojourns,
to completely throw
ourselves into the avalanches
that the thought of your
unmatchable goodness brings.
Tears are a river of perennial water, mother, they never dry up.
You come, keep coming,
nobody here
is afraid of pain.
It is only in death
we grow wiser.
Self love is
the abyss of
eternal forgetfulness
that we fall into,
again and again,
in our apparently vibrant
hours of
abysmal imbecility.
Love lives
through lives,
new suns
new seasons and graves.
A mother has to die
to get this truth home.
