A girl, a hug, and a poem
Written by Abel Johnson Thundil
I sit with paper and pen,
Scratching my beard like an incomplete philosopher
Waiting for wisdom.
I sit with paper and pen
By the window
Looking at the old road
Where children run around
And old couples walk hugging each other for warmth.
There is no age to love,
And there is no age to poetry.
But it is hard for both to happen
At any age.
So I sit with paper and pen
By the window,
Able to write nothing.
And then she comes;
The short girl with short hair,
Hugging her books.
Maybe it's the only hug she has known.
Maybe it’s the only thing she feels everyday;
The hard covers,
Things that don’t speak to the heart.
Maybe it's the only hug she has known,
And I see it in her sunken eyes;
Tired yet wild;
A lion with a bloody face,
The moon on a cloudy night
She still hugs her books,
And it is the only hug she has felt.
There is a tear in my eye.
She should know what a warm hug
From a warm chest feels like.
She wants to be loved
Like us all.
But I sit here watching her pass
Like a mist,
Like a ghost passing through buildings.
I take up my pen and begin to write.
There is something to write about,
Someone to write to.
So I take up my pen
And write lines for her
she'll never read.