Grandmother is on the streets hawking
her wares.
She is a witch, probably; it is
whispered.
Senility is not hard of hearing.
Where is the glory of motherhood?
When were the bonds between mother
and children severed?
How is it that the one whose breast
we could never have enough of,
Is now the one whose face we could scarcely
have time for?
Where is the honour so ranted about?
As we look through the telescope of
our days seemingly growing wider,
She looks back from the other side and
sees her time growing smaller.
Let us learn the lessons we ought
from him who regrets losing his mother’s bosom.
Let us crown our mother with the
smile only her children can put on her face.
No comments:
Post a Comment