There are good people. There are bad. And
then there are ones who momentarily turn evil and tease children out of mere
boredom. My father’s friend from the third category, once came upto me and said
“So I heard you write. Creative stuff. What do you write?” “No preset theme,
just about anything” “Oh that’s over confident of you. If you can write about
anything, write me a poem on mosquitoes!”
“Uncle, I indeed didn’t mean I can write
about anything. I only meant I do write about random things. Anyway, do you
have a pen? Give me quarter an hour if you do.”
None’s
familiar with the flapping wings
That
mark their destiny of torture.
None’s
seen their closely striped bellies
That
are filled with our essence of existence.
None’s
worked close with those sadist minds
That
constantly calculate bloody intentions.
But
most of us know the momentarily powerful sting
That
can easily distract us from anything.
While
a torrent of pain sketches ugly frowns on faces,
They
are only aware of their dutiful sucking.
Humans
tend to murder them extempore,
And
if missed, deeper than all pain is regret.
All
have experienced their unwelcome presence,
And
these lean mean beasts are in singular named,
The Mosquito.
