A baby-word at most,
nothing else,
with its own set of reduplication,
a blabbering sound,
so that the word hangs
fittingly on the blades of the tongue,
a repetition that evokes
half yearly, twice, two parts
as if life provides freedom
to do the same things again.
Still the word oscillates, we befriend it.
Yet when it is time to utter it,
the word suspends itself,
a baby-word it ceases to be.
The tongue entrusts it to the air
as if, conscious of its weight -
the eyes absorb the heat of the moment.
It overburdens us, not letting us be humans.
Bye-bye mother.
Bye-bye father.
Bye-bye friend.
Bye-bye lover.
Bye-bye brother.
Bye-bye sister.
An inane word for the adult world,
to make us feel nothing has changed,
or even if it has,
it will occur again, twice
yearly.
Bye-bye year.
