The Torn Shawl

Those little eyes that opened and you stepped in,
This life, awry, has otherwise been.
A smile spread on my face on seeing those tiny hands and supple skin,
Like a bundle containing excitement, in a fairytale, yet to begin.

But I am guilty. I don’t do justice to you even after hours of toil.
Working in the harsh sun, my tender hands I spoil.
Why did I ever get you here, to add to this muddle and embroil?
To watch you grow up with lungs full of smoke from gas oil?

This race I have been running since eternity only to get lost this urban sprawl.
Only misery and melancholy I can forestall.
Saving you from extremity and cold in my torn shawl,
I couldn’t hope for anything worse to befall.

To have fancy dinners of cakes and cream pie,
To make you wear pretty dresses and watch you play under the clear blue sky.
With the tears that fall from the corner of my eye,
This dream shatters against the thought of the debts to clear next July.

Twisha Sharma

*This piece has been selected as the Winning Entry of the Day for the ‘Viewspaper Express Yourself Writing Competition’*