There’s a man in the park, dearly familiar,
A drawn, kind face, unhurried, unrushed,
He’s watching children play; I find myself watching him,
Imagining, what it would be like to have my father sitting there,
Is it a fleeting feeling, a crazy, wistful thought?
Or perhaps the dead do come alive in a memory, in a look,in an old fragrance,
A melody, a favourite dish, in a future they didn't get to live.
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| The Song of the Sufi Masroof |
2 comments:
Empathy for the Write.
And applause for the pic.
Simply awesome.
keep it going;)
@Amit Charles, thank you so much for your encouraging words and applause, poets and artists thrive on it :)
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