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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
Copyright ©
Christuraj Alex
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