Lullabies To The Dead


In the dark of a cot,

a mother sits by the earthen pot.

Haggard and pale,

she finishes a fairy tale,

the little life in her womb,

gets trapped in his tomb.

She clenches her fist,

with her forehead wet with mist.

Presses her parched lips

and takes droughts and short sips.

Trying to overcome the pain in her belly,

she begins humming a lullaby.

The stars are bright,

the moon dances at a height,

sweet fragrance of red roses,

are felt by fairy noses,

sleep my angel,

so soft and beautiful.

She sings again and again,

but senses rising pain.

She shrieks and shouts,

cries aloud, twists and pouts.

A lullaby again,

reverberates in the forest rain.

The sense of motherhood,

gets lost in that wood.

Silence ensues in that cot,

as the infant dies in her pot.

Lullabies echo in that wood,

sung by a mother deprived of motherhood.


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