His Master's Voice

      His  Master’s  Voice.

Tied  up to his  ancient  cot,

Cloth  threads   criss  cross  the  edges,

Age’s misery speaks   a volume in his

Wrinkled  face .The  sturdy  hands  that

Wove    yarns  in  the  looms; ere also

Wont  to spin the threads in the  hand

Machine, now sinking, partially

Conscious .  He   beckons   to his 

Son, caring, reading newspapers,

also reading   hard palm of the

Dying  now.   Son  takes  the cue

Of  his  father’s  hereditary profession.

He  identifies, ruminates, lengthy yarns

Which  dominated   and   shone

Many  a  cloth shop.  His  mind

Is  a   repository  of bundles of 

Yarn  and  cloth and  showrooms.

 Some  neem  leaves  Supposed  

 to be medicinal  lie  by the cot.

His   last  cardinal, low voice

In  a feeble tone, mutters

“my son take care  of the Cow

Serving us for years, it is

Another loom  and  Gift.