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
