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| Meenakshi Mohan |
Who will hold the light
(This poem is dedicated to my sister, who, despite her
handicap and humble living, was the sole caretaker of our father in his ailing
age.)
in the twilight hour
when the sky wore the deep sapphire blue
to bid farewell to the sinking sun
the sun whispered, “who will now hold the light?”
the world stood mute,
then the lampposts one by one
sprinkled their faint amber glow
brightening the city’s lonely alleys
inside one of the humble abodes,
dim and quiet
lay her father in deep repose,
a fragile structure of the past
yet for her, an ancient,
rooted tree, and she a tender vine,
despite her slow rhythm of destiny
wrapped strength around
his slowing life
she creaked the window open
to let the fresh air breathe in
into the still room
and saw the lampposts
standing guard to hold the light
through their thin, dark pole,
bringing color and glow
in the desolate cityscape
she looked inside her apartment
cloaked in loneliness
where silence was broken
by the raspy, shallow sound of
her father’s breath – she smiled
yes, she was the one
holding the light in her frail hands –
a flicker against her father’s gathering dusk.
Note: Tagore poem:
Who will take up my work?" asked the evening sun.
Hearing this, the world remained silent. A clay lamp
said,
"My Lord, I shall fulfill this duty to the best of my ability.”

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