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It’s Never Late

I won’t say I have recovered from this. There was just one poem after that one. And it went places. An NGO’s website featured it, an Orkut community shortlisted it for publishing, not to forget my hostel magazine, where it appeared. So, I thought of including it in my blog too.

It’s Never Late

Damp breeze amongst shimmering lights,
Quite heavy lay the rainy night,
Incessant coughs, her voice too gruff,
Yet rose the white smoke puff.

Minutes ago the rain had ceased,
Hither-thither lay chilling mist,
She had found a bench and lighted one,
Remorseful for having done.

Her life was a happy and pleasant one,
A carefree bird with hunters none,
Yet she smoked, the free sweet lark,
Two years ago in the same old park.

As days rushed past and months went by,
She missed her smile, her stare wry,
The lark quit her chirp and song and play,
She couldn’t sleep at night and smoked all day.

Numerous alikes she found on the way,
But they seemed happy, cheerful and gay,
She envied their joy and wept lighting it,
A monstrous effort – she was trying to quit.

She liked it then, as all other folks,
Looked down upon the world as a roosting hawk,
She relished diving in the smoky well,
Yes, it helped to delve in her self.

Now a deplorable her, yearning to quit,
She threw them all and yelped seeing it,
She tried all day with her last bit,
But as night fell, she bought one and lit.

And so it happened, day after day,
“I pity her,” you could hear them say,
She restrained for a while but couldn’t for long,
She would end up smoking every morn.

Then there was a day she managed without,
Enthralled to the spirit, she would scream and shout,
She said aloud, “I’d no more be sick,”
Yet the next setting sun lit the stick.

There were days again she managed without,
“She’ll smoke again,” you could hear them doubt,
But she fought and stretched it to a week,
Spirited again to give up the wick.

Steadily she tread the path so wild,
Determined to quit before she died,
Months now she could stand without lighting it,
Eventually, one gracious day, she managed to quit.

She was strolling past the same old park,
She found a faint light amidst the dark,
A young boy smoking, two packets nearby lay,
“It’s never late to quit,” she said and went away.

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  1. Moli
    April 18, 2007 at 6:18 pm

    I was talking about this poem to bachcha telling him how much it touched my heart and that I had read it somewhere on the net totally forgetting that mamme had actually written it and had made me read it once on his comp.
    I just want to say that it’s a honest comment ‘your poem is just wonderful.’

  2. aniket
    April 18, 2007 at 6:55 pm

    thanks bahadur!!!

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