The Truth – Thinkotopia

WE or THEM – doesn’t matter

woman s face

When the Wrong happens to THEM

WE are not bothered

WE don’t react

WE think

WE are safe

Well . . .

It’s ok

WE are not one of THEM

but WE forget . . .

The Wrong spreads its fatal wings too fast

Its mammoth clutches are too cruel and gigantic

and WE nurture the Wrong with our deliberate apathy

And very soon it forgets to differentiate between

WE and THEM

Moreover, when hooliganism spills on the roads

none remains untouched

WE or THEM

doesn’t matter

it affects all of us

WE or THEM

doesn’t matter

All have to face the consequences

WE or THEM

doesn’t matter

In fact, WE don’t know

for whom the bell tolls

what will be the Wrong’s next whim

what will be his next fancy

And

WHO will be his next victim

WE or THEM

doesn’t matter

because

strange are the ways of the Wrong . . .

The Visit

via Daily Prompt: Trill

Trill

Image result for orphanage clipart

The trill of their voices still on my mind

Though I had left them a fortnight behind.

Neatly combed and properly tied-up laces,

Taught to be quiet, those dressed up faces.

But those eyes …

Those eyes I can’t forget.

Emptiness and longing in there

I think is beyond repair.

Today in the cold morning holding each other’s hands

Tied by many unseen strands.

Once Abandoned and deserted on garbage loads

Born behind closed doors then left to die on roads.

Curiosity flickered in their eyes for a while

Two or three in fact happened to smile

A few tried to break the monotony of standing in a line

When I extended the gifts in a pile.

They are the ones who know how to survive

Even in utter dejection and incessant strife

Some of them, I BELIEVE, will eventually shine,

Will rise above the stigma, their lives almost fine

This sums up my visit to an orphanage

But …

What remains …

The echo of trilling and tweeting in the haze?

Ode to Parkinson’s

I got the shock of my life last night

When my mother saw me but failed to recognize.

Once strong like a mountain, now she is ill and fragile

Parkinson’s has taken a toll on her ability to survive.

Oh! What have you done to the woman who used to thrive with life?

Her once capable hands shake continuously

Making her unable and reliant; and this perturbs her profusely.

Her once high and proud head is now drooped habitually.

Her once unwavering and kind eyes are now all vague and lost strangely.

Oh! What have you done to the woman who faced every odd so bravely?

When I called her “Mamma,” she turned her face to me in vain

And tried to grope in the dark to get a signal from her brain.

I heard the angry pitter patter on the window pane of cold winter rain

I felt the cruelty of old age and tried to hide a tear of pain

Oh! What have you done to the woman who taught me not to feign?

Oh! Dear God! Something changed in those senile but still beautiful eyes

My mother narrowed her gaze on me, it felt like getting the most coveted prize.

“Don’t cry, don’t be afraid, my dear,” she repeated her old advice

Her words broken and unclear but still so wise.

Oh! See this woman who never fails to rise and shine!

You can take away everything from a MOTHER, You shoddy,

But not the MOTHERHOOD, embedded in every particle of her body.