It is yet another Sunday. Well, more precisely put, it’s a freer Sunday than most other drab week-ends, for it happens to be the Independence Day Sunday. At least that’s what the tri-colour hair dyed model, beaming from the covers of my morning newspapers tells me. But, again, that’s the least of my concerns.
Today, since the time I woke up,(hardly an hour) it’s been all industrially grey clouds around. Ah yes, another set of my poems has been inducted in the Sunday papers. Good. But who cares. I don’t.
No, I do!
Today, is uncannily grey, with streaks of broken white in the sky, just like the mascara streaked face of a friend, when she cried torrents as our last farewell party at college got over. She calls me her, only bestest friend. She hasn’t called me since. Ha ha.
And then, there are always the little scopes of tragedies and tragic musings, interspersing our daily itinerary of worldly observations? Well, I have my own little couplets of fatalistic brooding this Independence Day weekend.
Today has been the second, congruent day, in a single week, I have accidentally and quite heart-ached-ly witnessed two child funerals, with a lapse of a day in between.
Both, fathers, carried their small soft bundles of dreams and accolades, in coarse, suffocating sheets of the last clothing. Their arms delicately wound around small smile-less bodies, warm and womb-like.
Their arms delicately wombing, little heads and backs, delicate and careful, lest they should wake up? Wishing they could wake up? Their silent stoic tears, burnt on their faces, as the grey morning sun, brushed their faces.
The small mounds in coarse white clothes were all disciplined and silent.
Asleep. Dreaming. Asleep. Never to wake up.
Some dreams are born
Some dreams are born in sleep.
Some dreams never wake up.
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