Mother, You
Many a times I felt your footsteps
One after another, tiptoeing, afraid to intrude
The niched life of your own son, caged in golden fetters
Hitherto unknown to you, you remain the Angel
Endlessly adoring me, though I have been traveling far
Recklessly smearing my childhood with the soots of present
You bear it silently, like the first dewdrops of Autumn
Oscillating between past and present, present and past
Undeterred by all the changes, you dust the old album
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