By Kalyan George
The old wooden swing
Cradled in the hands of the wind
Gently rocked back and forth
In painful silence.
I stare at the backdrop
Leaves stained with autumn’s colours; rustling
Twilight’s dying rays seeping through
As crickets chirp parting tunes for day’s retreat
They miss her too; I realised
Their performance; my daily recital for her
As she swayed on her swing enthralled
Now, they go about, in sombre tones.
My little sister, branded at birth
By the man above
In the place of sight;
A heart overflowing with love.
The rest of us could see the world, yes;
But in shades of black and white
As we toiled day by day, in misery
To pass the months and years by
Though enveloped in darkness,
Only she could see the beauty of creation
As she listened and touched
Laughed and sang.
She was our candle,
Guiding us through the darkest of nights
Ensuring we never stopped or stumbled
Our beacon through the long, weary tunnels.
But even the flame on a candle
Flickers and dims, from time to time
That is when she would ask me:
“Brother, will I ever see?”
Even in her rare moments of weakness
She clung on, with the true faith of a child;
To a vision of hope,
That we, with sight, could never see
As rainbows appear
In colour and splendour;
They fade away, in the blink of an eye
So it was for my sister
As the last grains of sand fell
In her hourglass on earth,
She lifted her pale, tired face
The sunlight enlightening her
Her feet already on the staircase
Leading upwards
To her home up above
Hidden amongst the clouds.
The angels, with the last clarion call
Breaking the shackles from her eyes
Finally, at the end of her long tunnel, she saw the light
And her delighted voice, one, only I heard;
“Brother, I see!”