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A disturbed child

For hours and days we talked, and there was that portion
Of that honest conversation when he opened a certain
Cabinet where a black-covered diary contains a page of the story

About a disturbed child,
A confused child, not because he was not born like
Any other new born child, on a package-deal of innocence
For a start of his existence,

A happy child, a normal child with a
Loving and caring ma and pa and excited siblings
To receive him as another playmate added to their house,

At most, the conversation changed to a slow motion
In that portion,
He showed some serious indications, a gaze of a man,
Undistracted by her poise for casualness and
A consideration that this is nothing but another kind
Of a light conversation unlike no other,

It is not, this is serious, he said, because this is true and this really
Happened, the cabinet and the diary are nothing but
Fronts to fictional realities,

He was the disturbed child, and he is going to tell her about it,
Today,
He did not have a happy childhood, as he once told the Jesuits,
Who accepted him to their fold,

And for which he, of course took his graceful exit,
Because he is a liar,
He began talking about some bamboo sticks which hit him,
The sack which enclosed him, the rope which hanged him
On the kitchen beam,

The ants that bit him while he
Kneeled on mongo beans under a scorching sun, and the mother
He still very well remembers,

She was not able to do anything to save him.

She too was part of
That disturbance, the slap that still left a mark of humiliation on his
Left cheek,

A scar on his childhood, forever. She died earlier than expected.
He, the villain, did not.

Not the child, who later escaped from hell.

that child though disturbed by his past, is now given the right to speak.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Added by Poetry Lover
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