I couldn’t erase the haunting image of

A child trying to wake his

Dead mother.

Dead, from dehydration and exhaustion;

Exhaustion unimaginable, from days,

Days of walking and travelling,

Travelling to return to their homes.

I couldn’t erase the relieved words of

Some other blessed people.

People who said they were grateful,

Grateful for their karma,

Karma of being fortunate to good birth;

Good birth indeed.

Indeed life can mean returning to our roots.

I couldn’t erase my thoughts of

That child who is too young to know;

World in its formative period where,

Love, care, food and play makes sense.

Most of today may be forgotten, and

His cries will remain till memories fade.

May a mother give him a life in a home.

Stories of migrant labourers (India), especially footloose migrants, have been the news stories for sometime now.

I was deliberately avoiding the post of news-based poems though, have been writing a few on the current issues. Today, I thought of sharing my emotions.

2020, Deeya Nambiar