While he passed the street yesterday.
Took him to the days when
His mother still fancied them
In her braid.
It seems like an era has
Passed now.
How his father brought them
To her from the local markets.
How even she herself,
Stood arguing with hawkers,
For an extra inch of the wreath..
Now she doesn't wear any.
When his father passed away
And in what forsaken book
It must have been etched,
About the husband-less women,
And the flowers she fancies.
And if the natural order is just
Beauty and desire are
The true measure of existence..
Then in every market,
In the every hawker's wickers,
A handful of Jasmines,
That were ought to be in a
Mother's braid..Wither in
Tired fragrances..
And in all glory as they
Waft past the noses of all the
Over-aged sons, they slap them
Awake to the loneliness of their-
Widowed mothers.
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