She paints breathings in the air
as the first giggle spreads.
She prays, hums and enjoys lullaby,
songs, sculptures and paintings
larger than god’s sniggers with hallowed edits,
mom’s heart it is, sanctified as an idol
in a temple with a soft song for a cradle-child
offering a unique feel of heaven.
Impossible to equal humanity of sighs
a mother in woman dissolves fond groans,
in hymns, melodies and tunes of earth and gods.
I know a woman – a mom, courted but never invented
another woman taller than words and holier
alas demystified.
More than Gita, Koran, and Bible
of soft love words perhaps
possible to liken a woman to god or a saint
living or dead.
For here, man invents tales of lies.
As light as the stroke of breeze, a fountain of intensity,
of passions, she is a firmament of glory
and ocean of love
and a spring of undying joy.
A sun, a moon and earth she holds deep in the breast
and lavishes empathy.
That is a legend a man creates to befool a mother,
while he loves to live with a woman in lust and deceit.
A timeless river seems dry as questions continue
to pester the panting and the weary woman,
while sighing in the hidden shrine of a mother.
