Thirty Three Years

Thirty three years.

The first eleven --
They belonged to others.
Mothers and Fathers,
Their kind of figures.
And neighbours,
And teachers.
And fellow little people
Taught to be called friends.
The first eleven,
I have frankly forgotten.

The next eleven?
They too,
They belonged to many others.
Mothers and Fathers,
Two set of figures.
And ogling neighbours,
And asking relatives
Taught me of life
Like they were my teachers.
And fellow mates,
I thought to be friends.
The next eleven,
I was mildly enlightened.

This last eleven?
It feels like heaven.
I am my Mother,
And my Father.
I decide my neighbours.
And know life as my teacher.
I take wrong decisions,
Then find the right.
I have friends,
Few and fast.
And finally found
The voice
With which
I write.

Three elevens,
Hovers and threatens.
Thirty three years,
Of mastering tears.