By Monisha Thomas
The book of stories and poems
Lie strewn all over the world,
Carelessly torn to bits and scraps
By the winds and storms of time.
The bits and shards,
The bard picks up
And glues them as he hums
A new song into the night,
A lullaby for the child in you and me,
Deprived of love and time.
He gently spins a funny tale
That hems the weary heart,
Who sighs and lingers
By the azure pool
To cool off when the day is done,
For the streets were scorching hot,
Searing his weary soles,
As the tired soul ran in fright
To make ends meet
Before the day is done.
With barely time to eat and sleep,
Rest was sorely missed.
Then the strains of music and
The stories he leaned in to hear
Became words of hope
On muggy days,
As the bard cleverly
Spun everything
Into a funny song.
It fattened his soul,
Repaired
His tattered world,
That had got
Scattered in the breeze.
Well, the bard—he picked up
The tattered bits and shards
Blown and strewn around.
He glued them together patiently
As he hummed
A soothing song of hope,
A lullaby
For the child in you and me,
Deprived of love and time.