Mother, I first wanted, To spin you a poem, In your honour, a work of art, Verses worthy of praise from Keats himself, Something phenomenal, quite like yourself, An uncontrived song from my heart, Bursting with momentum, But then instead... Mother, I have but words, Incoherent phrases, A long string of apologies, A longer list of unfulfilled desires, Yet, still lauded by sycophantic liars. Tell me, why am I ill at ease? Less distressed are gazes, Of wing-clipped birds. Mother, I am tongue-tied. I wish I could express, How graceful, kindly, tremendous, Tender you are, how much you mean to me, And've helped me conquer mountains, silently. You’ve sacrificed for me, so much, That I’ve not known sadness, I’ve never cried. Mother, An honour too, Is to have been guided, By your learned, experienced hands, And even a lifetime isn't enough time, To compose in any measure, a rhyme, Not even of fragmented strands, That could've serenaded, My love for you, Mother.
Published in the "Navchetna" 2015 issue