I have put her on sacred fire,
as she was resting on the pyre.
Before the flames devoured her,
I never felt she journeyed so far.
Touched and felt my mother dear,
who is far and yet felt so near.
I touched her - felt like ice,
yet in life her warmth was nice.
I called out to her many times,
thinking when she told nursery rhymes.
She was in slumber, put to rest,
I shook her to wake - I tried my best.
What stood between mother and me,
was fearsome and ill-fated destiny.
She was still resting on the pyre,
waiting for her son to put her on fire.
Prasenjit©1997-2012
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