Tear drops were puzzled,
Torn between grief and sacrifice,
From a mother's eyes,
That witnessed her only son,
Breathing his last moments,
On which she clung,
With all hope and love.
Lost and tired,
A parched throat,
Wailing with pain,
She ran about insane,
Begged and cried,
For her dear child's life.
When fell upon her ears,
Some young pitiable lives,
Awaiting a flame,
Which she could light,
And a mother's heart did fight,
To accept the truth,
And she let them take,
His heart, liver, kidneys and eyes,
To light up,
The four unknown lives.
She dropped on her knees,
And sunk her face,
In his tiny arms.
Her dear child is gone
She wept bitterly
At her inability,
At her decision,
To make which,
She had to die,
A thousand deaths!
[This poem is dedicated to the Parents of Aditya of Hyderabad, India who decided to donate the organs of their dear son who was brain dead
after a fall from their building terrace]
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Comments about this poem (Thousand Deaths! by Roopa Menon )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
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