A boy is silent on a chair,
eyes closed and deep in prayer.
Looking towards the sunny garden,
reflecting on life and its burden.
Head tilted and reddened eyes,
waiting for the sun to rise.
People move on fleeting glass,
reflections do not stay - alas.
On the black chair all day long,
patients in queue, people throng.
He looks towards his mother,
sometimes he prefers not to rather.
Mother on bed writhing in pain,
hope and medicines work in vain.
Kind lips pray, and His hands heal,
and like others he believed in it still.
Prasenjit©1997-2010
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