I’ve written, so, a book for you
Of all the things I want to say,
But cannot say before I go,
And cannot know if this today
Will prove to be my last today:
A permanent just-yesterday-
he-sent-another-rhyme-you-know.
The book will tell you, not so well,
Of why a kid with shaky hands
Attempted every full moon night
To pull a bucket steady, right,
Despite the fear of reprimands,
To free the prisoned moon inside
Without it rippling down the well.
The book will show you, bit unclear,
Bazaar-view of entreating fears
The boy evaded every time
He washed away the cowdung slime
Beneath his father’s slippers, shined
The very morning through his tears.
The book will…Bloody buggery!
The book will this, the book will that –
The book’s a wish to fix a past,
Revisioning a story-me
Who never had a chance to be
An anything of any art
Because he never had the heart
To rise above his self-pity
And do something for somebody.
Minakhi Misra 