Ink From Father's Soul

As a son, oh! I couldn’t feel my father’s affection,
As a father, oh! I missed my child’s innocent emotion.
Only after my son's birth came the revelation—
That spill of innocence sparked a quiet revolution.

Burnt flesh, reborn just for butter and bread,
Self-growth vanished—for courtesy, for others instead.
Dreams scattered, sacrificed for what must be spent,
Love and desire lost—for nurture, for nourishment.

Left alone in silence, trapped in an illusory sphere,
Old age brings misery, helplessness, and fear.
Life, now a fragile thread,
Hope shattered—bitter tears we shed.

Oh, my love, we’re alone once more, none remain for us,
The sum of life—an orphanage, empty and thus.
Our son will be father one day, with regrets like ours,
And the cycle will return, repeating its powers.

Poet & Writer Assistant professor of English,  Sayed Nishat Ali
RNT. PG.College ,Kapasan, Chittor, Rajasthan, India