- Syakir Moharum
"Oh, he’s at the doorstep! Shhhh”,
whispers the last of the three.
The lights out, the television dead,
not a sound bounces off the greasy, flaky walls
of what has always been home, study, and play.
In between the shaky foldable rose-patterned table
and the red plastic multi-use chair,
the ma’am of the house flicks the cigarette lighter
and brings it close to the candle – the only she could find
in the depths of the organised mess in that corner of the kitchen.
The keys ringing – the delightful sound
of his momentous return from a long, long day.
With his calloused fingers he swiftly opens one-by-one
the locks that ever provides the littlest protection
against spray painters and what he always calls ‘bad men’.
Behind the scenes, the little ones clutch their mouths
as they bide their time for the man of the hour.
At once, the man steps into his 5-year-old mansion –
the pride of none but a select few
the abode of his moon and stars
the world of opportunities
the land of the free
Nay, but anyone could say:
The song is sung.
The candle is blown.
The hands are clapped.
The hugs are hugged.
On the delicate fingers of the lady
was a slice –
a slice of paradise.