Every birth is a miracle;
more of a miracle; not less;
but his two hands and his two feet
are tiny miracles in themselves;
the four first toys he’s yet to discover and enjoy;
we can’t take our eyes off them -
their perfection.
but his face..still crinkled, his lips
almost disdainful; as if he’s not yet ready
to face the world, put on a face for the world;
it’s not even a world to have a view about as yet.
Lucky him.
So he doesn’t know as yet
that he’s to be named Arjuna;
that he’s yet to discover
whether it’s a burden or a blessing
to be given that name
which he’ll hear crooned so many times:
‘Arj…Arjji…Arjunaji… Arjuna…’
and gradually it’ll sink in, that
there’s someone else… and me myself…
they’d prayed, as is the ancient custom,
to bring a great and noble soul into the world;
his father Krish, that’s Krishnaji
has taken on a new role too;
there’s more to birth, and name, and life…
it takes a lifetime to find out.
Michael Shepherd
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/arjji/
