Subrata Ray (27.01.1959 / Nator, Rajsahi, Bengladesh)
To A Mother The Son Does Not Grow Adult
Mother, is the living shrine,
To her eye the son remains ever green,
Whole the world is aware of the son,
The mother’s eye never transforms from the morn.
The son stations to adult hood,
He gets equipped with different moods,
He learns the black art of daily change,
He experiences the relation-mystery widening his range.
The mother’s dictionary reads only the baby innocent,
For she gets wrapped in her feelings essence,
She finds no fault with the boy,
And sees him playing with childhood toy.
To a son the mother remains as an oasis,
In his good and evil she remains as a spontaneous bliss.
For, from her being the son comes on the earth,
Learns her smile, her words, and life’s rope with fountain mirth.
When the son feels sorrow the mother cries,
In son’s evil days, with all her soothing she tries,
Her heart and mind like fresh wind, find passage to son’s wellbeing,
She is the earthly goddess, the divine image, life’s rarest thing.
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