He spoke to me  . . . . .

Those eyes rain now ,
Heavier than ever recorded ,
Enough to drench the droughted land ,
Boon for farmers ?

Every inch of his skin groans and growls ,
Louder than the loudest shriek ,
Severe than the labour pain ,
Mother is blessed or vicitim is cursed ?

Not a morsel , digests down the gutt ,
Like the apex that remains fixed to its position ,
Its , will against necessity ,
Good for statues , but human ?

Hearing him ,  I feel sorrow ,
Not about what I hear from him ,
But about his loneliness ,
Is talking to a wall , all is what he deserves ?

Ailing , coughing ,  he walks in his old age ,
Young he is , strong and firm though ,
Gloomy scar has wrapped him all around ,
Like a tattoo or never ending memory ?

Asked him , suggested him , to have faith ,
He listened , agreed , and follows even ,
Odds are in number while hopes at least ,
Killing him every second  or  paralyzed forever ?

Months went by , weeks are in motion ,
Months will go again , weeks will retrace back ,
Weak he ‘ll remain forever if he holds not firm to the months he has ,
To be strong or to feel defeated ?

I feel defeated ,  I lost to his questions ,
I never felt short of answers , but he failed me ,
I can only hope for wellness ,
Can’t say if , he get back to track or derail !

Bharath R Rao


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