A. Z. M. M. Moksedul Milon
My Second Mother
Seven long summers, I slept in your lap,
With thousands thirsty bugs in your sari
And millions mosquitoes over your head
Sucking all my jaundiced blood drop by drop.
In rainy days, I heard you cry and sob,
Seeing me take some stale rice and rat-smelt dal
And live on just two modest meals a day,
Turning myself into a bag of bones.
I used to wake up late to miss my milk,
And save some coins every cloudy morning;
My friends and field work used to freak me out,
You just warned me not to miss the tilting.
Like the old Ant you kept advising me,
But this Grasshopper indulged in idleness;
Seven Late Autumns, I missed my harvest,
But you kept feeding me with what you had.
When all my little hope used to wither,
Like the leaves of the trees by my window,
You watered it with the tears of blessing
And helped new hope sprout and rejuvenate.
What I am today is what and how much
I drank from the little springs of knowledge,
Gushing out in stream of your skinny breasts
That still do suckle thousands thirsty lips.
(Dhaka,29 December 2011)
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