It has come to this

Mother , I see  now you are grieving.
There is no compulsion for grieving
A son lost and frozen on to an ice slab
With eyes screwed on  a whirring fan.
He had  just shown you and the girls
All the stars he could of the dark night.

Girls will not let you cry near phone
And go away into the day till  a night
Descends upon a common grieving?
It has come to this, these phone rings
That do not come easily just because
They think it will interrupt  a crying?
Or just because mothers are assumed
To be crying in the dark corners away
From phones, into the hem of sarees?


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