Mother: A Multifeceted Personality

A dead tree looks like a stone 

Of thousand years black, fissured and tan-faced, 

But still no hopes to fall down:

The secret is that she holds the invisible

Beauty steady and faithful.

Although she is dead by body but 

Still alive in her warm sighs of beauty.

To make the unseen beauty visible, 

You've to be poetic.

The body is reduced to ashes some day 

But beauty never perishes.

Between a dead tree and a mother

I find a sweet simile!

When a mother holds a pen

The world comes to her feet,

And implores to be her slave.

Mother is a such a subtle flower

That blooms through all the year.

Mother is a wax

If someone good or evil

Comes to her, he or she becomes

Liquefied by her warm.

Mother is a blooming lotus in the nectar,

But that ambrosia  becomes poisonous 

When a hornet stings the lotus.

Literature isn't possible bare mother-

Even, except her there is no identity of father,

What we are today!

What we were yesterday!

And what we shall be-

All credit goes to mother: the symbol

Of all women.