Lullaby

[ I was not sure if this should be or could be put into words but still, here it is. Lest I forget what to do when I find myself awake till 3 a.m.]

The silver dreams of the golden days
hung afloat, shattered
bleeding black,
still shining though.

The horizons smeared with ashes grey
as far as the eyes could see
and here in my bed I lay
Still. Awake.
Inconsolably. Uncomfortably. Incorrigibly.

I think hard and remember
my memory brings back to me -

That lullaby.

What was it? A hymn perhaps?
And the patting by those hands
Those rough heavy hands with calluses from years of work
came gently down my forehead.

I clearly remember,
That day, many years ago
I had just woken up
But was put back to sleep
instantly
with the humming of that lullaby
and those comforting pats.

And how one day,
I can't remember when
the lullaby was heard no more
I was too young to understand what death was,
Or bereavement.
The only physical sign I could remember is,
My father seemed to have aged years in a few days.

"My memory has no mercy on me." I read somewhere.
Rightly so.
It wasn't until recently that I realised

the treachery of memory,

it wasn't until now that I missed that lullaby, 

Recalling it, fiercely
picturing those hands gently putting me back to sleep,
patting myself,
trying to listen to that wordless hymn in the silence of the night.

And somewhere in this train of thoughts,
I find myself lost in the void of sleep.
That lullaby, still
comes back to me,
to comfort me.