SYNTAX

I used to sit beside him

when he was dying inch by inch.

How earnestly I wanted to siphon off

my saved years, to his crackling bones.

 

Silently, without a word, yawning, then

looking into vacant space

soundlessly, we talked about the shadeless life.

 

 

He wanted me to release him.

I watched helplessly, his unmeasurable stance.

My father’s proud, erect past, glistened with alacrity.

 

How much my son will know my heartache?

my ruined shape? An ordinary man climbing

the ladder slowly. I walked straight

and walked drinking water only.

 

Go, my father go, rest in peace.

Looking down the lane, in time and distance

I will correct the syntax of life

and icy affairs.

 

 

SATISH VERMA