The colors spoke to him,
Abstract faces, caricature art, like music to his ears.
He had a friend, Kotha, who discussed everything at length.
His Maa, teary, liked Kotha, for she was his only friend,
He often wondered why Kotha never left... Had she no home?
The colors so bright,
Sometimes dazzled and woke him in the middle of the night,
"Maa, Maa! " He used to shout.
The single mother would come, sing him a lullaby.
Kotha was there, but she was a bad friend at night.
One day the walls started moving,
Like a scene from the horror movie, and Kotha screamed.
But Maa didn't come! Why didn't she?
Kotha said, in her deep yet melodic voice, "the walls need blood".
He woke up, a new person, looking like a doctor was there, smiled at him, gave him some stitches.
The doctor took his Maa to another room, the wall paintings turned erotic.
Kotha realized, a woman has needs!
But the son had trouble dealing with it.
The doctor came again the week after.
The boy was painting and didn't open the door.
The colors, after all, were alive, his own.
He heard a whimper though,
He googled it.
The police broke down the door. The boy had hanged himself.
The wall was painted black and white, a woman,
"My Maa, my best imagination."
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem