As stoic seemed he, was their, last adieu, too
Who shed, no tear, o’er a, poker-faced prayer
As if, living his, legacy, through and through
Sans the, shroud of care, they buried him, bare!
Was it, economics, of expressions
Or élan, of, unchained sentiments
A man, of many, mean renditions
Never lived, a life, but sacraments!
The farmer, of his, family’s faith
The solitary reaper, of their, dreams
Is now, no more, than a, waning wraith
For paternal sin, every man, redeems!
A stiff, upper lip, was not, a choice
But a heritage, of, manhood’s ‘malaise’
In the din, of his kin, who lost, his voice
Unforgiven Remains, A Father, Always … !
© 2021 Vikas Chandra