The Child We Never Had.

-Anindya Bikas Dutta.

Pic for Representation purpose

Thus I pen by the light of the fires-

That burn and the clothes halve

I wove of yarn- soft against my hands,

For the child we did never have.

And thus, within me surges ocean dark,

And thus, within me builds music of long-

Oh, how does the fountain feeble of fate

Break of my heart these currents strong?

Alas! For prayers I did like confessions

Whisper alike to gods in dark and light,

For dreams I did of merry days see;

Joys known and unknown to my sight:

How can worlds in their shattering-

How can skies breaking- go unheard?

Can so soft, so silent-echo pain ever-

In the strange airs of miracles skyward?

Mother Divine! How can Thee see not-

My bosom: that not milk but tears wet,

My fingers: that not flesh but void holds,

Like poetry whole that is in emptiness set?

Can barrenness veiled by sorrow deep, 

Around which gather you, to hear crave,

Soothe the ears-I shall know never;

Nor the child we did never have.