If I had a father,
I’d nudge him
To tell me stories,
I do not know
If there would be much for him to tell,
But all stories can be retold,
Can they not?
No gorgeous dream come to put me to sleep,
His stories could.

If I had a mother
I’d ask her-
Where I was born?
It cannot be true that there is no beginning,
Can it?
If she was here,
I would want to know
If I gave her high hopes,
Like she gives me,
When I think about her.

My story, as I know it,
Is more like a creeper, that
Takes root into a small piece of soil
In the corner of a narrow lane, and
Grows past the mossy brown walls
Towards the brief opening
For light;
Often uprooted
With the least heed.

When I count my meager earning
From flower market,
I smile, wondering
How would my story be
If I live to tell it.

Photo Credits: Reetam Banerjee

I would like to know what you think about this :

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.