Parents in pale prostrate setting
beckon me !
Tea in a cracked old cup,
few damp biscuits,
Wrinkled coarse hands
of labour and love
(In the days of idle smooth hands)
caress with so much friction
— so nourishing
touch to the core !
Could I visit the late parents last?
Are they gone?
Am I so eager to find out a beggar
to offer some money
as a token of last rite
— a ball of rice in the Ganges at Gaya !
Do I frequent the remote sanatorium
where poverty gives all the poor around
in shape of my parents !
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