The night is in labour pain today,
I can feel its sweat, suffering and plight.
Triplets are to be born today—
The millennium, the century, the day.
Labour pain is too much—
Wars, epidemics, killings kicked her belly.
For years one thousand she bore
the pregnancy period all turbulent and disturbed.
The pain is thus too much,
Yet birth she has to give for new life.
A new child among the maternal pains,
The elder one meanwhile writhing to die.
And look at the urgency,
Sky has touched the ground almost.
A smoky fog circles around
to work as a midwife.
Too many kicks have been hurled at the belly,
Pain hence cannot be avoided.
Painful writhing more so,
For the birth time’s certainty is there.
Also scared is the mother
of those rioters awaiting the birth.
God forbid, if they go crazy,
and kick at the moment last.
Anxious for the infant,
She fears pangs more.
Small hope is there in a lamp
glowing dimply by death bed.
But a furious whiff by anyone
can blow it out too.
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