That Note

How glad I could be if, like the teaching of the Gita I can renounce the fruits of each of my tireless labour. Being a long way from the perfection of Lord Krishna Midst lost gifts, I'd seek my son's note that I value greater As boyish, buoyant naughtiness navigated his road Fun and frolic outwitted his fervour for true wisdom. Roaming carefree, like a hippy, his youthful trails he trod My hopes for him were hushed like the glows of a broken prism. He grew up with his mother dead; I was his all in all. My chides pierced his heart, which, I know, might be like a knife. Like a gipsy, with a note, he left; didn't write or call. That precious note is lost; I feel as though I've lost my life. Silver, gold, or gems would never match a paternal bond. Though in the travails of time, bonds tend to fly far beyond