It is Aids..

                             IT IS AIDS

 

 

It all started,

A little girl

    Then came the wind’s swirl

Separate ways …she parted

  Nothing to call her own

Mother and father, left her alone

 

At times, she would face unbearable torment

Then a feeling of relief for the moment

    That her mother had died

From the hands of a mere shadow

 

A fight, she gave

For five years

   Before I was born-

She chose never to become a slave

 

Valiant she was

For every drop of blood

  Then came sores-

She will groan till justice advocates her plea

 

It all began when shed pale

A surge in of ailments none could tame

Like a defense broken down

The locals are set to wail

 

I wept on hearing this sad tale:

The girl named Kate!

  Concerted efforts were made

But it was all too late

 

The locals of the town

On hearing the news

Reviled pity, and held to abuse

 

She was unborn by then,

But was regarded as outcast by men

  From where she made her living;

  EXPELLED;

  Homely gestures from loved ones withheld

 

Her heart was broken

And her soul was grieving;

Dual lives were in danger,

Then came a midwife for a stranger

 

She was taken to bed

Before being laid on the mat:

  At the onset of labor

She realized her life was turning to vapor

“I would deliver this baby before I drop for dead”

All the power within discharged for that cause

 

Shadow hath overcome the man;

Midwife drawn alert.

  The baby echoing out her first cry

Never knowing that her mother had to die

 

Rose engaged all her noble art did apply

To ensure that the baby stood uninfected

  The both were hidden…

To nurse the child of the “defiled”

Was forbidden…

  The baby glowing fair and mild

Though rejected…

 

To survive became harder

The midwife inquired about her father-

From among the men who got Kate pregnant by rape

Almost murdered before her escape

 

Amid these reflections, she swore

That though she couldn’t continue anymore…

Mother-nature would repay double-fold

At the same time consume them with rage-

   These she made at her old age

 

On the pouched basket she laid

The infant-and farewell she had bade

    Beside the blessed memory

A book of memoirs she made…

 

I found a troubled infant

Along the street

  I guessed she would be four…

She held this book to her paw

  The neighbors had thought she was a feral child

While others said that she had gone mad!

   Looking from afar

I knew I would meet

A frame mild but made sad

Molten pure- hardened for bad

  After a painstaking rehabilitation

To silence alone she chose to abide…

  Two years in my care

Not a word he had replied

   After I read those memoirs,

I cried

 

“This is how her mother died:

A woman so brave

  In sorrow, she gave

Her baby girl the life she never had

  I would have been glad

If I had the chance to see my child

   But there stood the one who would deprive

Me that opportunity of being alive”

 

This phrase I would repeat

As the day fades-

  If there is anything that would have defeat

Sealed to it permanently

  It is AIDS.