often I heard my mother say.
Maybe knowing days are less,
wishes undone - all in a mess.
Truly, she wants to laugh,
treading on road so rough.
Despair brings heart to book,
laden with grief in every nook.
'I wish I could live more',
she felt with a heart so sore.
One day her pain will cease,
and her body put to ease.
Truly, she wants to live,
a life where she could give.
Her child will be lonely then,
coming days, she knows not when.
She felt pain, but kept silent so,
an aching heart - we will never know.
Turmoil, anguish of the dying days,
put forth a fight is so many ways.
'I have lived full this day',
will I hear my mother say?
Sure, I know her days are less,
some done - with some in mess.
Prasenjit©1997-2012
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