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The embers remind me of my body,
These logs with their withered skin,
Are turning into ash as I watch.
The same crackling noises
That my fat will make,
When I will burn along the Ganga.
Most people want to live a 100 years
Yet, not know what to do on a lazy Sunday afternoon.
I read that somewhere, can’t put a citation.
Old is grandma, a tree with deep roots,
With a limb broken.
Living with that image of her daughter eaten by cancer.
She planted seeds of wisdom in my head.
Still it has taken me a lifetime to become whole again,
Why did I feel broken in the first place?
Nothing ever really matters,
Not even that stretched belly button
Or that persistent scab on the hand.
Cook, clean, work, fight myself and others.
Repeat.
And, thankfully, die just once?
But, how will I convince the ungrateful little ones –
With their desire for the phone and the internet.
Always, mistaking my duties for their rights.
Well, didn’t I too tread on my parents’
Unfinished dreams to come this far?
Not even my mother’s child in terms of her sacrifices.
What else am I here for,
Than to repackage the gifts I’ve been given,
And leave them for others to discover.
Harry said it best. Cats, cradles and silver spoons.
Old is “When are you coming home dad?” becomes,
“When are you coming home son?”
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Composed on 03/31/2023
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About The Article Author:
Hi, I’m Rachana. Its been my dream for years to do something to consciously create a better future where every one of us is excited about our own potential. My challenge to everyone is that they aspire for their personal best and leave a legacy of their work through their contributions to mankind.
One more thing. In December of 2044, I hope to win the Nobel.
Will you join me on this journey of growth and transformation?
Namasté.
Poetry
Human life without some form of poetry is not human life but animal existence. ~ Randall Jarrell
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