Hero. 

That was a day, 
When the night was cold, 
The winds sung a song so coarse, 
And the world had trembled, 
He covered some miles, 
In that small passage, 
Biting his tongue, 
Burning a hair or a two, 
She was inside the cabin, 
Where he couldn’t go, 
Some dreams of them, 
With a little hope, 
Some sweet smiles, 
Some pockets not so heavy, 
But full of wishes, 
Desires, future and hard work, 
A little house in the countryside, 
My world, my universe, 
Was their dream, 
Then he came crying, 
Packed in a soft towel, 
So small, so small, so small, 
He wiped his tears, 
Adjusted his sight, 
A war was to be fought, 
And he took against the world,
Bring back a bottle of milk, 
To a smiling family, 
The roof wasn’t strong sometimes, 
Food vanished from the plates, 
He cried, she cried, 
But never did he, 
That small growing packet of ambitions, 
Time passed like sand from hands, 
And he lost the black of hair, 
The melody he used to sometimes sing to, 
A rhyme so serene, 
Dreams became reality, 
Hard work, patience and lots of love, 
Sometimes he lost his temper, 
A man may sometimes show what’s inside, 
Sometimes not all the times, 
And he would smile when he showed him the card he made at school, 
The fantastic movie, the best shoes, 
Dreams when become a reality, 
Are a precious thing, 
Some lose something, 
For someone to gain a something, 
He wore those same old shoes, 
They still are as good as new, 
And the best thing for him, 
He would buy, 
He doesn’t know how to show love, 
He has been hard wired, 
Grown a shell, 
So that you don’t bear what he bears, 
The sweat, the blood, no difference, 
The days when he lost his hope, 
And when the world wasn’t fair, 
But he taught you to love and respect, 
To see the beauty of the world, 
To grow things he never could in himself, 
And would very quietly sleep at night, 
With legs sore from the day, 
Sometimes sleep would come to him, 
Sometimes he would walk in the garden, 
And pick up the thorns from the grass, 
Plant a tree in the soil, 
Or sometimes in him, 
Obvious it might be, 
Then or in sometime, 
And would try a hand at your guitar, 
To see if he could play, 
The sleepless nights, 
The spine chilling cold, 
And those shoulders that never lost hope, 
They say superheroes are made of something special, 
Now I believe, 
It’s the will of a being that makes him a superhero, 
Instills him with courage and valor, 
Lucky I am to see a superhero everyday, 
As he holds the newspaper, 
The only thing I can say, 
Don’t worry this world, Papa will save the day! 

Pops.. 

He turns the day into a delight and the night a cozy blanket, 
A dream evolves into a reality under his command, 
When one wishes for a new shoe, he wore the old, I like it better, he would say,
Then would very conveniently turn every heartbreak into a memory so distant, 
And would bring home the sweetest of delights, 
Every day, every night,


I haven’t seen the Santa, 
Nor seen the fairy, 
Who needs a sleigh, 
When you have your pops.. 

I sometimes call my father pops. Haha. 

Happy Father’s day Papa 

An ode to my Hero.
An ode to my Father.

The Crimson eyes and the merrying rows,
The wish that slept in the whistling brows,
The water that went straight down the Gullying cheek,
The sparkle that rose the brave from the meek,
The only thing kept us going,
Was papa you and your indomitable spirit of always moving,
A step away, 
A distance fade away,
Time is what it all takes,
For you to make us grow with sakes,
Another day, another night,
Papa your presence makes it alright,
We fear, we fall,
Always we try to call,
With eyes of affection,
With ears of calculation,
Papa you hear us,
Without any reason,
Without any constitution,
The days when the thunder was too loud,
The days when the low was the new shroud,
You covered our ears,
Said son see the dancing bears,
All of this will be over,
Nothing lasts forever,
And we would hide in your shoulders,
Just like the moon,
Skips a night,
Hides in the fluffy sky,
And the day would rise,
Papa you would carry your own sunshine,
You tell the world my moon is the brightest,
Try to harm it and see my darkest,
You would boast of things still so little,
The drawing we made, the cake we almost strangle,
You carry us when we drop,
How do you do that,
Each time, every other day,
You stand up, even when your legs don’t permit,
You are never tired,
Never do you lose the composure that we all crave,
You told us stories of fairies,
Of heroes who won over territories,
But every day we saw a hero,
Dress up, Prepare for a battle,
And even after a tiring battle,
Would come to home,
And ask son let’s build a new home,
He would move his hands over us,
Only to let us enter the realms of thoughts contagious,
And close the door behind himself,
He is my moon,
I would hear him say every time to himself.