An Engrossed Mother
Pitch dark is the spectrum of night,
In the lawn, at the door,
And on the boundary wall
Tyranny is a sentinel.
When the winds blow swishingly,
Worn out windows
Begin to weep and wail and at moment
When a tiny glow-worm begins to glow,
Since years door-clung sighing mother,
Recalls the memories of her son,
Years ago went on to combat for the king
In search of ephemeral victory,
Whose taste vanishes before it is cherished.
Her rosy-red perturbed eyes,
Incarnate the scattered agony,
Ambiguous words with the withering lips;
The story of defeat and exodus is inscribed
On the lines of her cold-stunned hands,
She looks engrossed into the vacancy
And becomes attentive
On each rustle of the wind.