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 firstname.lastname@example.org Published in Daily Times, January 3rd 2018.