The tree springs in silence
But in the sound of happiness,
Paving its way beneath the sod,
Fashioning its anatomic form,
The hardships it endures
To give beaut to the world labours its beauty,
And how to colour its wounds is self-dependent.
When it reaches the culmination
Of its years, it tumbles with a roar,
A deafening sound
That vibrates emotions and feelings
Of its comrades and young,
Leaving its progenies homeless,
Others naked, in the cold of this world,
Others with empty breadbaskets, crying.
As her grandmother’s body was declining,
A new dimension was activated,
Gazing at her grandchild with frozen eyes,
But discerning the angels flapping their wings,
Clad with white gowns that were
Stainless like the sheets she was lying on.
Her eyes were speaking volumes
As she was holding her grandmother’s hand, tight,
Gazing at space,
Ruminating on the tales unfolding
And the tales folded,
But she does not speak for the dead,
And the dead tell no tales.
I was standing by the window,
Staring at her as her body was trembling,
In silence like a hawk I was listening,
Like a dolphin, her body was her dialect
And with my fondness I heard,
Because still waters run deep.
She was feeling blue and off colour,
How she was bleeding inside was disturbing,
Her eyes were blood,
As I was elevating her,
Her body was as light as a feather,
To stand, she couldn’t,
I was her legs.
I gave her my shoulder that she rained on
As if her heart was about to fracture,
Pain was her fragrance, I felt her sorrow,
And a lump was formed in my throat
But I delayed my tears,
“Let’s go home,” in her ears I whispered,
She gazed at me, dead in the eye,
“I no longer have a home,” she said.