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Then they reached, seventy of them,
In shrouds as white as the lilies of the field.
They cried, they wailed, they gasped for air,
Their caring moms left behind.
A man with a skin made from light,
His gentle look and the magic wand.
He tried his best to make them smile,
His tricks failed, his magic wanting.
It all but failed to make them beam,
The little angels still searched for their moms.
And then there came a group as white as their shrouds,
A group led by an old man with no teeth.
He had no teeth but his smile was sweet,
As sweet as mother’s love.
His naked chest bore three holes, full of light,
White and soft, a light of hope.
And along with him came an old lady,
Her wrinkled skin was clear like truth.
She wore a white sari with a blue border,
And they all called her mother.
The old man with a chest of light jested with the tiny angels,
And the mother put them to sleep, one by one.
She sang a lullaby from the years gone by,
And then the seventy of them slept in peace.
Their tiny chest not wanting for air,
Their cold hands not searching for moms.
In shrouds as white as the lilies of the field.
(Dr Shah Alam Khan, AIIMS, New Delhi)
(Views are Personal)
