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blacknessonseapoet

Poem No.120

POEM TITLE Nimisha


POEM

FIn her layette, she looked fair.

‘Nimisha’, the parents called her.

When aged five, the polio plucked

the strings that her legs moved.

As a stringless violin, her legs rest.

In the wheelchair, she grows up

along with her mother’s tension

and the father’s anxieties.


The rustic children wish her,

but nobody takes her

to the festival

in a shrine rural.

She wears new dress

but as the butterflies in her frock,

she also cannot flit

to the shrine yard.


Cough waves, today also,

shake her lungs so.

The distant drumbeats and the holy music

move her fingers in the wind rhythmic.

The clarion does resonate and ripple

the divine thoughts in her ears.

She never knew

pneumonia packing her soul.


Serenity of the twilight collapses,

as, again, the drum storm develops.

Few knew Nimisha swooned.

Later, the people intoned,

‘Being holy,

an apt day it is.’

In emptiness infinite,

her parents knew her truly.

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