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Poem

A man strides through the street.
The street is not a new sapling.
It’s air has the same olden, golden aroma.
Still now,
The trees along the avenue are
The protecting hand,
The lawn is a loving lap
And the shops, a source of satisfaction.

The man made his way again.
His path is hard and thorny.
That thorns broke his cover upon
His memory and led to his infancy.
Now, his mother’s lament
Reverberates in his ear
Her tears fall on him
Her controlled heart beats joined him.
The milk that she fed
Is flowing through his vein
The mocking sound,
 The agitated hand
That resist from giving a help,
Was clearly heard to him
He followed his momma.

Now the sky grew pale
The air smelled bloody.
The speck of the blood
Pierced his lungs.
And suddenly his bosom burst.
He cried,
Yeah, its my mother’s
The remembrance of the mom,
Who fed him her life and blood
In the paucity of the milk,
Led him to the abode of kindness.

He saw the blood drops
From the breast of his 
Cosseting love.
At the gateway of the home of love
He saw a brown and pale body
Laying on the ground.
He saw those foot prints 
Relating to this body
Then he sounded,
Mom, oh my mother.
Tears dripped from his eyes.
He ran towards his momma.
But he saw nothing,
Neither the loving body
Nor her foot prints.
There was just smiling flowers
And beside those skittish flowers
There was a statue
That still had 
A living mind,
A kind look,
Will to help and
Courage to lose life for helpless.
And that magnate was 
Mother Theresa.

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