Perpetual Foot Prints

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.