The mother knelt. Clad in white from head to toe. She looked down upon her son, lying in her arms. A youth in full bloom, his handsome face reflected a strange serenity, that belied the trickle of blood that flowed from his head to his chin.
The life may have ebbed from his body, that handsome body that had borne so much pain, such anguish with so much grace and strength, but he looked as if at any time he would rise and gather his suffering mother in his arms, wiping the grief from her face with his hands, as only a son can.
I stood there as if turned to stone myself. The tears running down my face were witness to the fact, that there can be no greater calamity a mother fears, than the death of a young son. That helpless, hapless mother, so vulnerable, yet strong enough to hold his loin cloth clad body in her arms. That son, a prophet by destiny, born for greatness, great sacrifice.. But all that mattered at that point of time was that he was a son. Her son. And that she held his dead body in her arms, his limbs stretched out across her knees as she crouched over him. And to portray this heart rending scenario in stone, with so much clarity, was a monumental thing in itself. Only Michael Angelo could bring out the grace in grief that shone on Mary's face, as she held the crucified Jesus in her arms. Only the Pieta, housed in the precincts of the Vatican, where now i stood rapt and transfixed, could evoke the adulation of the many pilgrims clustered around it.
There she sat, the mother, I remembered. In her arms was her young son. The grief within her was like a dam waiting to burst, and burst it did. The wail that arose from some deep recess of the heart, froze my blood, as I heard it. She mourned not only his death, but his life. All the things that normal children did before their mother's eyes, which his disabled body wouldn't allow him to do. She had shielded and loved him all her life. The mother and child complete in themselves. Even as his body grew his mind was still at the stage where he needed her for everything, from food to bodily functions, to security and love.
Now, he was no more. The serene innocence of his face shone through the white shroud that covered him. Beside him sat his mother, alone, freed, but carrying the burden of her grief..
The Pieta, enacted in front of my eyes.
The life may have ebbed from his body, that handsome body that had borne so much pain, such anguish with so much grace and strength, but he looked as if at any time he would rise and gather his suffering mother in his arms, wiping the grief from her face with his hands, as only a son can.
I stood there as if turned to stone myself. The tears running down my face were witness to the fact, that there can be no greater calamity a mother fears, than the death of a young son. That helpless, hapless mother, so vulnerable, yet strong enough to hold his loin cloth clad body in her arms. That son, a prophet by destiny, born for greatness, great sacrifice.. But all that mattered at that point of time was that he was a son. Her son. And that she held his dead body in her arms, his limbs stretched out across her knees as she crouched over him. And to portray this heart rending scenario in stone, with so much clarity, was a monumental thing in itself. Only Michael Angelo could bring out the grace in grief that shone on Mary's face, as she held the crucified Jesus in her arms. Only the Pieta, housed in the precincts of the Vatican, where now i stood rapt and transfixed, could evoke the adulation of the many pilgrims clustered around it.
There she sat, the mother, I remembered. In her arms was her young son. The grief within her was like a dam waiting to burst, and burst it did. The wail that arose from some deep recess of the heart, froze my blood, as I heard it. She mourned not only his death, but his life. All the things that normal children did before their mother's eyes, which his disabled body wouldn't allow him to do. She had shielded and loved him all her life. The mother and child complete in themselves. Even as his body grew his mind was still at the stage where he needed her for everything, from food to bodily functions, to security and love.
Now, he was no more. The serene innocence of his face shone through the white shroud that covered him. Beside him sat his mother, alone, freed, but carrying the burden of her grief..
The Pieta, enacted in front of my eyes.
could actually picture it when reading..very aptly described..
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