Sameen Sakhya
A child, hidden behind the drapes
Of a hooded cot, speckled by what sunlight
Seeps through, gazes at the world and cries,
Only quietened by their mother’s smile
Which, in a world of new images, sensations,
And feelings could move one to violence
If only the child was capable.
How many such children have existed
Throughout the ages? How many mothers
Lulled them to sleep along the river of time?
And how many of that river’s veins
Dried up each time the song the mother sung,
The words I mean, ceased to exist because
The child forgot the mother tongue?
I can ask this question till eternity slips into
An egg that’s shoved right up the chicken
That crosses the road backwards, but the only
Answer I’ll always get
(Because of the language I ask it in)
Is one word: Hypocrite.
