It was a fine guitar.
My dearest possession.
The tool to escape my life,
The life without any prominence or distinction;
The life, a mere proof of an existing biological function.
The only sense was from the music I understood.
The sounds created by those strings over the wood.
The notes would drown me to that world of imagination.
This was all I had for a fascination.
But it was not long that I lost my only passion.
The afternoon still survives in my memory,
The door bangs open, my uncle standing with a face
That gave away his fury,
His red eyes, the smell of his presence
Corroborated our doubts of his untimely alcoholic indulgence.
My mother screamed out Vociferous,
But the guitar did not stop.
I still don’t know-
If the attempt was prosperous
Or the musical protest was a flop?
The reek came closer,
The fingers played louder and faster.
The dipsomaniac spoke-
My price was settled by the dealer.
Enough to meet the addict’s expenditure.
The Music stopped for the last time.
The guitar was snatched and there ended
The play of notes, so sublime.
My mother would not let me go.
The dirty hands pushed her on the floor.
The sight made the anger in me grow
The addict had to be thrown out of the door.
He walked to my mother and kicked her to cry.
I lifted my guitar to give it a different try.
The guitar played a sound again
But this time it was for no musical gain.
The smash to his head made him fall on my feet.
The blood on the floor did not make me feel guilty any bit.
The Music had ended long back,
Now me and my guitar searched the identity rack.
It was not a weapon to kill,
But an instrument to feel.
And I was teased by everybody as Dumb Bill.
But not a boy of murderous skill.
