written by: Pradip Chattopadhyay
I can hear them mom, says the son
yes my child, hundreds of them,
says she, neath the blue sky
within the red building
attired in many colors
yet faces grey and dark
unhappy with all their ailments
grim visage and unseen tears.
A drop gathers in the son’s eye,
and a thought clouds his mind.
I see a reason, he sighs,
you have seen to it God
my vision does never suffer
the sight of such misery.
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
Mother with her blind child, scribbled at the hospital sitting opposite them, Oct 26 2018 1pm.
Retired Banker, currently copywriter, writing poems since teenage years.
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