"We shall not cease from exploration and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started
and know the place for the first time." (T S Eliot)
"A dark and chanted verse is what I am." (
Forough Farrokhzad)

Tuesday, May 6, 2014

MOURNING SICKNESS

He was a real child
And he had a name.
But she never knew him.
She never once
Bounced him on her knees.
The milk of her breasts
Never ever filled
His tiny stomach.
Her son’s personality
Was either blank
Or whatever she wanted
To invent for him.
She saw his little face
In her mind
But she could not imagine it
Growing
Or ageing.
He was a ghost
In every sense.
No words were ever
Uttered by him.
The doctor had said
The baby was a bit sluggish,
And sluggish he remained
Forever.
So sluggish
That he never cried
To be fed.
Nor did he reach out
To be cuddled.
His teeth were still
Dormant in his gums.
His eyes would never adjust
To the light of day
And the blackness of night.


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