dedicated to my mother

The only I believe

Sometimes you watch
Her.
Just that much and no more.
It’s a story when…

Suddenly she holds a sickle
in her hand,
eyes colder than the snow-laden night,
with the red dotted fire aflame her
forehead…
white hands strong, nerves of steel
and its anger that shakes her frail
frames…
no more no less.

It’s a story that’s found
a
new beginning
she drops no futile tears,
the bhagvad gita flows fast thick and
from lips that have not tasted
water for days…
passing on an afterlife,
passing on a faith,
passing on love.

After all it’s not everyday
that,
One blesses God for having taken away
the only one she had with all her
might!!
And so I remain, humbly
A fruit of this tree,
A human is only She.