what is the sky saying to you in the dark,

wait don’t worry the light will shine more brightly in the morning;

so true it says;

but what to say to him,who even seeing the sun
says it’s all dark
if only he could see the bright day;

he could have been assured of it;

sparks in his life,not of fame,
but of powders,
grafted body of his,
just a perfect example… of the bright darkness he visualizes ,
working around in the mills of gunpowder,death is chance play of his luck
now as usual the time passes;
passed the reality to shame…
a common thing in this game of mills;

he sees white bright light coming not through the door way,but

from everywhere,wherever he opened his eyes to…

strange he uses his grafted hand to clear his eyes to see and but saw nothing;
he closed his eyes,in despair
he replied to his painful heart,
he has gone blind;
this voice said in silence, echoed more than his shouts for rescue…

today he saw something new ,which will make him see nothing ever;
but his counterparts didn’t bothered…
as they themselves were half dead by then;

what a tragic end for him,
the darkest ever;
and today he lost all faith,
but still works in that mill,
all day and night,
but strangely he’s happy now as now he don’t have to cry for to see the day…out of the mill,

but every time i look at him working down through my office clean window
he still works with that enthusiasm and his grafted hands with the same old powder;
probably his soul is the only piece now left to be mixed with the powder itself;

but now he’s not afraid;
he’s not sorry,but he’s still waiting as he waited
when he came here as a five year old, 25 years ago;
for to someone come and take him away from this powder and mud;
he’s still caring for someone to come;
and give him
his hands to care for him in his this little left life.


One comment

  1. Robena Nawda · · Reply

    nice poem, very imaginatively able to explain the depth of pain and love together. lovely

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