The songs my father sang infused me with –
the deepest pain and I lay broken, not –
perceiving its height, length, scope, range or width –
the shrill shrieks echoing those battles fought –
The songs my father sang diffused me and –
I tried, on my knees, praying, Please! Help me!
But waves of silence washed away that sand –
of hope I fancied were rocks braving sea –
The songs my father sang refused me though –
I wanted to love them, make them my own –
and then, away to lands unknown, I’d row –
with broken boats and a deep dirge, a mourn –
I listen to songs my father didn’t sing now –
but in me, the pain questions, Why? Where? How?
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)