Sunday, 20 October 2013

Keep It

A few innocent footings,
When was it, 
That you held grip of you?
The you, which was merely ready,
The you, which never knew the use of tongue,
The you, still hiding behind your mother,
Awaken hard by destiny, 
You wept, and swept, and crippled, 
But still went strong,
Like an iron grip of a baby's hand, 
On the slender fingers of her mother,
Smiling, laughing, 
The blows, 
Working their way like potions,
Raising her, bit by bit,
Piece by piece,
With each time her growing up, 
It kept taking something from her,
Sometimes, the strength,
Sometimes, the courage, 
Sometimes, the will,
And here, I sit beseeching
My hands folded in obligation to Thee  
Take you may whatever,
But do spare her, her heart,
For it's only the heart,
It's pristine goodness, and fondness,
That had her from going.

Buckets full of love.

Always there,

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