On the Lady Who Calls Me SON!
/This poem is inspired with an old woman, who runs small business in a bamboo tray in the footpath.
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When the day is dropping
A log silhouetted she seems.
One has to get pretty closer to
Know it is a human:
An abandoned citizen.
The frozen sneeze on the back of her hand coruscating traffic beams
Put me in a predicament after I have received fags from her.
sometimes I get touched by her skin too.
Last time when I reached Gaulsala
the police had just moshed
Her tray for
Encroaching public path
I remembered the Lipulekh
I remembered the patriots,
comrades and their helplessness.
That day,
I, only watched her gathering
scattered things.
But to keep looking at the scene
felt waste of time.
I had walked far
yet she could still be heard.
Her every billingsgate was
followed by asthmatic coughs.
Coughing, cursing frail body and age, beating jammed chest are her habits.
I know it because last time too
When I asked for cigarettes
She coughed for a long time after she grinningly said, ‘Take it SON’.
By Parbat Limbu
From: Nepal
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