The mother with the child
In her lap
Tracking the world,
Going to
Where the child wants
For an outing,
Hinting to pluck
The flower
For its pleasure
And the mother going
To pluck
And give
And to make it smell,
Swinging him,
Playing hide and seek,
A caring and loving mother,
Massaging the legs and hands
And the child running after,
She always trying her best
To hide him
From heat and dust,
Sun and shower
With the anchal,
The sideways
Of her sari,
The mother,
Always caring,
Always calling him
When it gets late,
When it comes to not,
When he was a child,
When he grows up,
Good or bad,
Even if falls in a bad company,
The mother keeps following,
Nursing him,
The mother
As for having
Kept in the womb,
As for breastfeeding him
And now he stands a bad son,
How much changed
And different,
Forgetting all that
She had given birth to,
It was she who made him
Grow up
As a young man,
None but
It was she
And now that
He has forgotten all that,
The mother,
Kind mother,
Benign mother,
Always kind and merciful,
My mother.

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Copyright © Bijay Kant Dubey

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Disclaimer: The image used herein is in the public domain and taken from the Internet. Due appreciation and credit is acknowledged for the same.

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