My first taste was that of my mother’s breast…
My first touch was her skin
ere I opened my eyes…
That touch was my first sense of life.
The purity of that milk is flowing in me
as a moonlight in a dark night.
That day I clinged on to her
while I could hear her heartbeats.
It had variations of a tougher life-
the sacrifices done, small and big…
Never cud I realise what she wanted.
Her wishes remained as sun in a night.
Still it lit up my moon in the dark
and stars for my searchlight…
I refered to myself as her ‘next’
and she said: “Don’t”.
I wondered why…
She then smiled
and hit my head light
and whispered ‘my child…’
What is hidden within
the streaks of her smile…
What is in that heat under her arms
that I feel when I hug her tight…
What is the vision she dreams about me
when she looks at me
with her face on her palm…
I can’t read her depth
but still want to be like her.
Why, what and how are the questions
that need not to be answered
but have to be felt
as my mother’s tear for me.
While the present gets faded
as a twilight in the dusk,
she stands as a mystery
as the future of an immediate past…
Night, hold yourself!