Happiness A workingman pushes his bicycle As he crosses the suburban street; The little girl on the seat is half-asleep And a boy, with all the maturity Of his young years, walks beside him Holding his rough and calloused hands. The traffic rushes by, snarling, smoking. He gathers speed: it will be evening soon. His clothes are dirty with soot and dust, His face lined with signs of the hard years. If he could pause, he would rest a while … But the bike in his hand does not wobble. He carries with him riches more treasured Than found in vaults of an uptown bank: His son who believes in his heart There’s nothing his father cannot do, The girl whose world revolves around him. There will be darker days in his world, But not today, as he crosses the street: His daughter’s dreams are his own now, And his son’s steady stream of questions Sweeter that any song he ever heard. Diptesh Ghosh An edited version of an earlier poem I had written. Altering , editing.. hard work :)
Posted on: Wed, 14 Jan 2015 09:56:04 +0000
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