Poetry / May 2008 (Issue 3)

The Lie

by Ashok Gupta

Margoa, Goa.
Father Angel’s ashram
a few cottages.

A 'mother' in each home
and orphans.
Each home clean
well kept, equipped.

We sat on the parapet
and watched the children play.
Twilight set in
with deepening shades of grey.
Children ran here and there;
skipped, danced, pushed and fought.

I didn't know when Frazer
came and stood beside me
Holding my finger in his tiny hands
he asked,
"Will you be my father"?

The last light in the sky
had faded into
the silent night.
"Yes", I lied
twenty years ago.
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