My Mother

By Ballaleshwar Tela

Day break, she wakes up

Let it be summer, winter, or any season

A soul imprisoned,

But in routine chores—trump

No ambition she knows

For, no pretentions she believes

From spirit she lives, strives

In kindness she grows

Her a godly person

Praying Gods always

Moves she swift in the ‘maze’—

Care smitten

Her love—endless and unparallel

Not just for us but gods and children

Gales—Wizened

Yet in harmony she dwells

Increasingly I realize—

Her care and her sameness; everyday

For her I pray

And beauty sans synthetic; she symbolizes.

By Ballaleshwar Tela