Colic

The Quiet Storm

There is a thing, a quiet thunder that swallows sleep
A little body, shivering on a sofa’s edge,
A gasp of air that turns to ache, a desperate weeping,
A soft-breath – a silent hiss that wakes the night.

In the nursery the lights dim like a candle’s breath,
The cradle turns, the night‑goes‑by.
A parents' lullaby – a modern hymn –
Interrupted by a growl, faint as a distant storm.

The colic roars, a storm inside the womb of steel‑blue skies,
It doesn’t keep by floor or bank,
It clings to sutured skin, to an unborn heat of blood,
It keeps the living one on the verge of a lull.

It is not hour or night or age measured by the sun,
But the colour of life that flickers under the ache.
A parent's fingertips search the world’s small map
Seeking a reassurance, that one will lift the rage.

It feels like the horse that prances on a riding field—
Grand, a beast of hunger, pain that sees the dawn;
The rider waits, breath held, for the horse to reclaim the balance,
Like a child, his stomach’s fire, that tries to reverse the trend.

But as the colic sighs, as a faint symbiosis with a world’s very pulse,
The child, stolen by pain, does not know this far‑out raft.
The parents, steady and worn, whisper hope in colloquial verse.

“Scrape the soft breath, love, the world is sorted on notes—
Burn the inner greys, feel the colours, find the end.
The gentler the skin, the gentler the sound, the less we warn”
Twists the rhythm into lullabies for a thousand humours—
Like a small string of a great excuse, the rhythm, the night‑chain of miracles.

The storm ends, then?

I do not know, but something is forgiven.
The savour of local coffee and, as if a new day breaks, I love a child who refuses to eat.
The calm finds those who had to stand by their hands in the glow
Of a gentle blaze, perhaps, the profound sense of a small smile that keeps us alive.

So I sentimentally, sometimes in a radius of a horse,
Brief, but the direct translations but my heart aches a––but that does much to keep us quiet.
With patience, rhythm, and heart, we still fight the storm—
With affectionate humour that gets the healing all the time.

The colic remains lingering in a strange theatre of a night,
But as a child learns the colour of peace, even a very small measure of bliss more loudly…
I fill the pockets of feelings, because it always keeps a node of fire, brightened, up they find the beauty of.
Be reported words.

— End of poem