Too Late


By LavanyaChellam

Staff Reporter


He, the shadow, follows his son

Through water or land, earth or sky.

But son doesn’t look back.

Son sits, he sits.

Son shouts, he shouts.

The father saw only one color in life—

In the form of his son

Breathed only one word from his mouth—

The name of his son.

The father cared not to wake up—

If he could not see his son first.

Son dances, father dances.

Son smiles, father smiles;

But when son slips off,

Father holds tight to the concrete

And supports his son;

But son doesn’t look back.

Time runs, Earth runs, Father runs—

only behind his son,

but son doesn’t look back.

Soon, fate spins her arrow

And points an end at the shadow.

He staggers and fights,

But her grip is too strong.

He calls son, twice, thrice, a thousand times,

But son doesn’t look back.

Finally he gives up, on himself, fate, and his son.

He, the follower, falls toward the ground.

And when he closes his eyes,

The Son looks back,

Too late.


“We are endowed with many great well-wishers all around us who toil and work for our benefit. However, our blind eyes neglect the smallest presence of affection and warmth, until one day it disappears. Then, no amount of tears can bring anything back, because time is all powerful; it’ll be too late.”

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