With an ax modeled out of
Miles of wax thinking
My mother scissors down
Chips from decaying apple log
And burns them beneath fire
To cook love for us.
When I peer down
Into her turbid eyes
I can peruse the history
Of love-beaten grey rainbows
Which watery gloom of years
Inspire in her heart-chasm.
As the months unfurl into future
Like an old white cloth
Unveiling scars and blisters ripening
I see mother walking away.
She melts profusely into old age
Leaving behind a trail of ashes.
Bent down on a tapestry,
She embroiders for my wife.
She looks towards me with expectations
Laden with images of grand-children.
And smiles with her earthly lips
As if wondering at the beauty of her crops.
I remember the spots in my childhood
When she guarded my cries like a sentinel
Fed me with white waters from her heart
And washed me of nocturnal mischiefs.
As I walk on a cold night
Towards her inhuman heart
And place my feet nimbly
On memory bricks, we share.
I eavesdrop on angels
Who will claim her soul one acidic evening.
Then, a night throbbing with thunder
And fierce silence of rocks will ensue.
If she leaves us alone,
Will God still look after the universe?
The writer is a student of English Literature at Government College University, Lahore and can be reached at rosseautolstoy5@gmail.com
Published in Daily Times, January 3rd 2018.