Mother, as the years pass by,
And that wicked senility slowly takes over you.
Turning those cottony hands into an iron-monger's fists,
As if to strengthen them more
than ever;
That flawless countenance,
Slowly gives way to a number of rigours and remourse,
Like paddy field, with its
breath-taking grooves,
Panaromic as the crests and troughs of the Great Himalayas, Residing as our
Edens in the north;
That silky cascading of your beautiful black hair,
That swayed envyingly to the orchestration of the gentlest breeze,
Yet, not satisfied with its own perfect-beauty,
Transmogrified itself into the dazzling hue of the wheat flour,
As if to tempt the gods out of heaven;
Those impeccable set of snow white teeth,
That so perfectly matched your handsome smile,
One of the superfluous reasons why you were always my mother;
The unforgettable gracefulness of those lovely legs,
The subject of many pedestrian s jealousy
Those sparkling eyes of a gazelle s lustre,
That forced me to check my own in the kithchen mirror,
Praying solemnly that the law of inheritance is infallible
Your magnetic sense of humour, your unmatchable wit,
Your view on life, death; meeting and parting,
You are flattering me as your dream blood-inheritor.
My dearest mother,
Everything about you was incomparable in your heydays
And now, as senility overtakes you,
Parting me further and further from you,
You will always remain the same matchless mother for me;
Wherever I go, wherever I am, your utopian-image will always be there with me;
So many mothers have come and gone in this world,
So many mothers will be coming and going from this world,
But, no matter whatever their number be,
No matter however lovely they might be,
None of them will be as special as you were for me;
You were, you are, and, you will, remain a special mother for me,
Will remain the quintessential exponent of an ideal mother for me !
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The writer of this poem is Ich Dien. As, I liked this poem very much I put it here.
