My Mother - Poem by Masud Khan
In the dusty afternoon,
Far away, near the horizon,
There, under the open sky is lain
Of interlocking waves and smells of grass and Dettol her bed is made.
A tube in her nose—oxygen—saline in the arm—catheter—
Ah! how she is getting entangled
In reeds and weeds of plastic and polythene!
Centering her bed, there prevails
A huge sphere of hazy, pseudo-real atmosphere.
It seems, after a long time, dusk is wafting down on earth again.
And a few birds and bugs
With their brisk spontaneity,
Amateurish musical sense,
And obscure mourning rites
Are hesitantly seeking refuge in that plastic hedge,
Under the shade of ancient matriarchy
That has sprouted along the horizon line.
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