Mother's home
You can't be a mother, the doctor said
I felt my world tumbled in my head, With empty hand folded I cried,
Thought God might rain one day, so I tried,
To appease all the deities for one boon,
May I too be homing soon.
Friends and family, pitiful eyes,
Refer to doctors, suggest to try
For some miracle to take place, advise of pils, medicines and the rest.
There stands silent my dark doom a flower less bosom, dreams in tomb.
A fateless forehead, fruitlesswomb,
Perfect embodiment of gloom,
Neighbours hush, tell remedies, But some are just not meant to be
Mothers, daughters, kind and cool, to be kept as 'prettiest fools'.
So countless fiery summers I spent,
On some days I put my soul on rent
My will power works three jobs to pay,
for a wrinkled hackneyed apartment. To see little steps back afternoon
I hope I will be homing soon!
Home of smiles on tender lips,
Little hands hold those fingertips, Where mothers aren't known by blood
Or womb or race or religious trusts.
Where I am wanted loved so kind,
I'll be called theirs and they all mine.
Home with a garden of my tree
However fruitless it may be,
Where is practiced selfless love
By people aren't 'motherly enough'!
to some infant fateless dunes!
For them I dream of homing soon.
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