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Location: DownByTheRiver, Central Iowa, United States

Husband of the world's most wonderful wife, father of the world's four most brilliant children, grandfather to the world's eight most beautiful granddaughters and two handsomest grandsons

Monday, December 04, 2006

A Gift From Malaysia

Visithra, who often comments on this blog published the following poem after the death of the Littlest Ranger.... Thank you.

"For Shamgar

God bless the little angel and all of you.

By Rabindranath Tagore
It is time for me to go, mother; I am going.

When in the paling darkness of the lonely dawn you stretch out your arms for your baby in the bed, I shall say, "Baby is not there!"--mother, I am going.

I shall become a delicate draught of air and caress you; and I shall be ripples in the water when you bathe, and kiss you and kiss you again.

In the gusty night when the rain patters on the leaves you will hear my whisper in your bed, and my laughter will flash with the lightning through the open window into your room.

If you lie awake, thinking of your baby till late into the night, I shall sing to you from the stars, "Sleep mother, sleep."

On the straying moonbeams I shall steal over your bed, and lie upon your bosom while you sleep.

I shall become a dream, and through the little opening of your eyelids I shall slip into the depths of your sleep; and when you wake up and look round startled, like a twinkling firefly I shall flit out into the darkness.

When, on the great festival of puja, the neighbours' children come and play about the house, I shall melt into the music of the flute and throb in your heart all day.

Dear auntie will come with puja-presents and will ask, "Where is our baby, sister? Mother, you will tell her softly, "He is in the pupils of my eyes, he is in my body and in my soul...."


Blogger Heaven Icthus said...

This is the mother of "Little Ranger". My thanks to you all. I would say heartfelt but my heart is still numb and it is a mercy.

I find it much like having a limb fall asleep. It's still there, still throbbing with a mild ache, until someone or something bumps into it. Then its all prickles and stings behind my eyes as the tears come again.

Sometimes I wish people would quit bumping me, though the touches are gentle caresses, so I might stay numb but that would be worse for my heart would die in my chest.

If my son could live and fight and try with only half a heart, then I must do the same with all my heart though it is shattered into pieces.

Thank you for your prayers, your faith, and the pretty poem. For bumping my heart and causing the prickles.


3:11 PM  

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