“The Mother and The Sun”

By Riya Yadav

The river hums a golden song,

as dusk drapes softly, deep and long.

The Sun bows low — his final gleam,

touching water like a dream.

Barefoot mothers, calm and bright,

stand in waves that hold the light.

Their palms unfold to skies above,

their hearts aglow with endless love.

No temple towers, no marble high,

just faith beneath the open sky.

A diya flickers, frail yet pure,

its trembling flame forever sure.

The Sun — the world’s first mother’s fire,

feeds each leaf and seed’s desire.

Her warmth is food, her touch is birth,

her golden hands caress the earth.

And mothers too, with sleepless grace,

carry suns within their face.

They burn, they shine, they never fade,

their love the light creation made.

Chhath is their meeting — light to light,

a vow renewed from dusk to bright.

The river cradles every prayer,

the wind becomes a whispered care.

When dawn returns, the world is new,

bathed in saffron, kissed with dew.

The Sun ascends, the mothers smile —

their faith has crossed the longest mile.

For love is not in words begun,

but in the glow of moon and Sun.

And Chhath reminds the world again —

the mother’s warmth outshines all pain.

By Riya Yadav