You did not grow in my womb
like other babies
in other mothers.
You grew in my heart – a seed
of a primeval wish,
distant tinkle of a lost cow-bell,
shadow of tomorrow’s moon.
The passing rain clouds
whispered a prophecy,
but I turned a deaf ear –
monsoon clouds have often been known to lie.
An unseen cricket
broadcast the coming fireflies,
but I ignored his call –
crickets are just too enthusiastic for this world.
Then one morning, a silver dawn
stood at my door
bearing a gift wrapped in golden light
and smiling skies.
Then I knew the clouds had visited heaven
and the cricket’s sixth sense was not a myth.