Category: Written in 2013

To Zoe

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia1 Comment

My favourite song for you runs through my mind,

Crying is a given now as I pack away your things,

Medicines by the dozen and your toys,

How much pleasure you had running after those sticks,

How you pulled bamboos twice your size to bring to me,

Every corner of my home reminds me of you,

I wish you would have lived longer in them without pain.

I cannot forget you, Zoe. You are my heart

And it breaks without you.

Crying and breaking is all I can do.

You would stay with me all the time if you could,

If I left the room you would get up and follow,

I taught and you stayed under the table there,

I was on the comp and you would sit and stare,

You wanted to sleep with us but the bed was small,

The floor got too slippery for you to stand,

I had to let you go I understand;

But now you left behind all this agony,

I can’t stop thinking of you, my love,

You made my day, my night, my noon,

Without God I can’t even hope to see you soon.

I wish dogs get a few of my life’s years

They are the ones who lick away tears.

Degenerative Myelopathy

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

Each day the light grows closer,
Each day the spinal chord slows her;
All I can do for this heart of mine
Is bargain with what I hope’s divine.
I cannot appease my cold fortune,
So I just drag my heart to its tune.
I drag her on the roads she knew well,
My heart bursts, but hey, who can tell?
I see how she wishes her body could play
And I rue to see her struggle this way.
I have given death three children in pain.
After her, how will I ever love again?
She brings light into my dark life –
She is my daughter, sibling, wife.
As the light shines in the distance I know,
I will have to someday let her go.
But my heart cannot agree
To what must be, must be.
I guess this is what prayer helps with,
But I have no trust left, not a bit.
She is my heart, my heart is she
And my heart is dying silently.

Those books, those films, those stories and those songs

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Those books, those films, those stories and those songs

Convinced us how love in life belongs.

They made us sops look for it all over:

Hope to look for it in four leaf clovers.

They never mentioned what to do after –

When the tears slyly kill the laughter,

When the stars and moon blot out and die,

When we glean every one was a lie.

They never talk of love’s staying in lease,

Or of death, or of pain, or of disease;

They never mentioned how love loses faith,

How it doesn’t need another love to mate.

 

Maybe, I am to blame for I looked away,

From the books, films, songs that had this to say.

 

I realize now what love’s true nature is:

Unjust quotients of sadness and bliss,

A ruse to reproduce before you get forlorn,

With nothing to do once the kids are gone.

Of this I’m sure: after all the cheating,

Although love leaves, the heart keeps on beating.