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.

 

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