When i was born, there was nothing new
My skin, they said, still looked like you.
I cried like every other child had done,
And cutting the umbilical, is something I won’t write on.
The nurses came and smiled at ease
But i waited for the charade to cease.
My mum had claimed i had her eyes
She was right but not about the size.
My nose drew the attention of everyone.
They said it always made a point.
The tip of fingers on its wall was never done,
Even those of the priest who came to anoint.
Five years later, we celebrate,
Cutting cakes that people ate.
We took some pictures and dad prayed against war.
This was exactly what we did 3 years before.
Now i am 20 and i still remember,
The routine from January to December.
The heartbeat of the clock is the same.
And the new gatekeeper still can’t remember my name.
Maybe at 60 something would change.
Maybe then monotony won’t be strange.
Maybe an accident would alter my memory.
Maybe nobody would remember me.
If i make it to a hundred and five,
That is if I make it alive,
It’d have been a miracle tricked.
It’d have been boredom prolonged and humanity wronged.