Mother’s Melodies

By Keerthana K

Mother sings me to sleep,

In her delicate, otherworldly melody.

She hums the words spontaneously,

To the inner tune of her epiphanies.

Mother sings about the mountains,

And her fascination with the life of the valley.

She puts them forward in beautiful quatrains,

But sings never of the freedom of the breeze.

Mother sings of meadows and greenery,

The twitch of her eye while lying under the sun,

And of the peacock wooing his hen by the tree—

But Mother was never allowed to stray or run.

Mother sings about her boundless pride

For her children, the life they made for themselves.

She sings of their love by which she abides,

But never about how she should be proud of herself.

Mother sings of the morning winter sky,

The one that’s loved by the new saplings.

She whistles about how she yearns to fly—

Mother is an angel with clipped wings.

Mother sings of her paper dreams turning soggy,

And about the short-lived days of childhood glee.

But her voice is aching, her heart is heavy—

Mother has never sung about being free.

By Keerthana K