Each rosary bead is a bullet

Ultimately,

tired of wandering,

they manufactured

a Homeland.

But what had actually been done,

they could not foresee.

They had reduced themselves 

to a tiny speck, a fleck,

a metal scrap 

amongst weapons and machines. 

The homeland,

you certainly will realize eventually,

would turn out to be nothing

but a perpetual game -

whenever you'll get time

to slouch yourself towards God

in your holy land

or clasp the Holy Book

in your hands -

this thing, that thing, 

something will always fall off - 

the guns, the helmet, the bullets

and all you could do is grin.

Mothers

Just the other day,

while searching for her

in the bustling market,

I grabbed someone:

those same handcarved wrinkles,

the knackered hands,

the floppy clothing,

the stained specs,

the same disoriented look.

That, somehow, doesn't seem 

like the case with fathers.

But all mothers

when they age,

look quite similar -

identical.

Plexus

The machine

doesn't recognise her, easily.

It labours to identify her.

The scanner fails to

read her fingerprints;

invalid data it states.

Error.

Biometric mismatch at other times.

She keeps cleaning her

calloused hands

time and again.

Finding faults with her body.

Retinal attendance displays the same.

Again, she blames her cataract for that.

However,

She's recognised, easily 

by everyone else,

in the very first instance.

At times, her side glimpse is enough 

for her to be spotted.

How difficult is it, 

I mean,

to recognise

a human being,

with a hunchback

and arthritis,

carrying office files here and there?