By: Mayesha Islam Abanti
The rays of sun, never so pallid before.
I gaze, I gaze at the world outside. Timeless and tormenting.
My mother is drying her tears of glum as she boils water in the kitchen.
“Dear God, fix my weary daughter.
The loss of another child, how can I ever bear?
For the last one who died; died in me.”
I hold on to my books like a hook clutched on to a blanched hope.
“You won’t understand.” You don’t.
My father sits in a corner of our gloomy house and vents out
“Dear God, would it not be nice to have a healthy child?”
I make balladry out of my lamentations.
I make my words curled up in a colossal smear of fleeting felicity.
The day outside seems too little for everyone else.
But too cosmic yet inaccessible to me.
The rays of sun, have never been so pallid before.