A Mother’s foreboding

 

             A Mother’s foreboding

 

Reproofs, advice and counsel all in vain,

If they were strewn, over the sand plain,

Thou wert adamant, sans sense of shame,

Ye hadst wronged, the honour and fame!

 

Thou wert so endeared, I could applause,

Alack! But had detoured the right cause,

Stabbing in back, didst me grievous harm,

Aye I wert ambushed, in my solitary calm!

 

Aye verily naïve and gloomy, on thy part, 

From righteousness, ah piteously depart,

And sneak into dungeon, of the destitute,

And tarnish my luster, above any dispute.

 

Then my heart hadst heaved a deep sigh,

And with thy opulence, I couldn’t just vie,

Allured to prostration, at the critical bend

Of thy life! Time’s thief you didn’t offend.

 

No amends made, for wrong you had done,

’Cause thy heart, enticement had thus won,

Ah thy beloved, who was come of birth low!

You were sunk deeper, into the slush of woe.

 

 

 

My misery’s numb, and silently nears its end,

And reawaken in you, must the impetus lend,

To knock loud at thy shaky, and trodden door,

And tear apart thy calmness, with refined gore.

 

Then squeeze thy heart, and press it very tight,

Oozing out to the last drop, those of ruby red,

Drop for every drop; counted with tears mine!

Those fallen for years, of creases my face line!

 

Believe me; thou shalt ever rave and rage alone,

Unsheltered to terror and fears, to cry and moan,

On harsh ocean, that won’t ever hold on to shore,

In solitary nights, tossing painful, hear shrills roar.

 

I can read the script so sad, a day ‘twas to come,

Thou wilt falter and stumble, just for faults some,

Why thy crafty skill, fell a prey to lust and desire?

And had paced the path; the one thorny and afire.

 

The self-crafted fate, and fancies ye wilt entertain,

Charged as fruitless, fondle dishonour and disdain,

And shalt keep waiting, for that unknown if thy lot,

Ah ‘twert mirrored in thy brow, aye one grisly blot.

 

 

 

By Dr. Riaz Ahmad, November 2025