By Davis Varghese
A tiny wombling, me, caressed by lullabies, silvern pink, much like the hue of my venous playpen and nine full moons later, her cry and my wail greeted us both. Dollops of pearl stringed words laced sometimes with blue plums of joy or pimentos of makeshift anger dropped from those rose petal lips. Nurtured me, flattered me, for two hundred full moons, straight. For the next seven hundred months, we made joy, we made play, we made life. We were one, one were we. Until, one after-night, the dark embrace of a white angel in an indigo mood and emerald tinged wings that covered half the earth, sent her on a journey. Floating in infinity. Comatose. Serene. Flawless. A tiny wombling, me, unfortunate, forlorn, was left holding a pretty picture and fragrant memories of A woman I used to call 'Mother'.
Davis Varghese is an IT professional and a globally wandering one. Otherwise, he moonlights with novels and poetry whenever inspiration gives him a chance. A few detective fictions later, which have been translated and published by ‘Manorama Books’ as novels, his experiments with poetry have found a home in ‘The SquawkBack’ and ‘Indian Review’.
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