The spring was in its full color; the sky was calm and compose; the breeze was gentle.
The trees were blooming with flowers as birds chirp and call and had their nectar.
The aria of the river, a mirror capturing the sky on its, was accompanied by her.
She was sitting at a distance, little inside the wetland where’s there a citadel
Folklore whispers it was where the old king sleep; he can be seen in light of the moon,
He can be felt in the tired evenings, when a calm river-wind blow, of the summer.
She was playing harp; the setting sun glow on her golden frame harp–
And the breeze seems to be playing with her movement of fingers
On the strings of the musical instrument.
The spring evenings moving towards the conclusion to let the night begin,
The shadow of the wood, its tall tree seems to be gloomy;
Their slender crowded shadow extends till the citadel.
A crowd at this moment arrive through the wood.
In front it was a queue of children–age not more than six; they were dressed in white.
They crossed the river as if they were walking on a stone floor.
Strange were their behavior–calm and compose.
They crossed me silently not looking at me.
A boy surprised me at fullest; he looked at me and smiled radiantly
He was carrying a big dinosaur in his hand
Green in color, not worn from usage.
Will he liked it…yes he’ll…
A distance memory echoed
Will he be not scared…no he is our son…
The memory reverberated
I looked at him; brown eyes, chubby cheeks,
Pink pouted lips. He whisper with a smile–
Am happy Ma; don’t cry anymore…smile…
Be like it, he aimed to the eve sky
Lamenting for day, then night
But holding them both
In its bosom and–
Giving joy to
To Brenda (Grief Poetry) and all those mothers who have (had) lost their children at an early age or have (had) stillborn.