The Echo

By Shweta Prasad

The day was dull,

an overcast day-

Brimming with the typical murky clouds!

The clouds wept throughout,

as tiny pearls trickled down;

barely skimming my umbrella.

Busy feet paced around me,

cursing the vapidness.

Amid the frowning faces,

I saw an old soul.

Frail and gaunt,

her face echoed wrinkles from far;

traced by moistness-

That scarred deep.

Her tears as strange to me as herself.

Her sorrow as strange to me as her jute sachet!

She clung the dull, yellow sachet-

Tight & close:

An enigma I fell prey to!

Her spot on the sidewalk,

was non-existent;

To lives that existed in the busy hours.

The belongings she treasured-

The half torn jute sachet & a rough-hewn walking stick.

Tears met tiny rain drops,

quenching in her desolution.

Her dolorous eyes fixed on nothingness.

Each step ahead,

deepened her sunken cheeks.

Far & near,

careless coins laid scattered-

charity for a mistaken vagrant!

Eagerness eliminated the obvious stretch.

My presence impertinent-

To an ache that was pertinent!

Her dolorous eyes, now fixed on me.

I gently laid down my warm palm,

over her stooped shoulder.

"What happened" -

I asked.

Tears trickled down,

her words silenced me,

marking longing for the bygone family-

As blood thinned down to abandonment!

The Jute sachet unfurled,

exposing a faded,

yet framed kinfolk-

Truly a lost cause!

By Shweta Prasad