Refugee
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The pigeons nested below our window ,
My son named them June and July..
The months bringing him rain,
what he loved most.
The pigeons somehow knew their names,
When the little boy called them from the glass window.
Then the thunders came , and along came the storm...
The nest was gone.
June and July never came back .
' papa' he asked , ' where are they? 'A tinge of tear painted those little eyes.
That's how refugees are made , I thought...
' they have gone for a new home' the father in me replied, with a choked throat.
That's how refugees are made , I thought.
- Saptarshi Basu
-------------------------------------------
The pigeons nested below our window ,
My son named them June and July..
The months bringing him rain,
what he loved most.
The pigeons somehow knew their names,
When the little boy called them from the glass window.
Then the thunders came , and along came the storm...
The nest was gone.
June and July never came back .
' papa' he asked , ' where are they? 'A tinge of tear painted those little eyes.
That's how refugees are made , I thought...
' they have gone for a new home' the father in me replied, with a choked throat.
That's how refugees are made , I thought.
- Saptarshi Basu
