If God Sends My Maa For A While!
I shall lay my head on her knees
Believing that God must have cured her arthritic joints in heaven,
Then she will brush my hair with her fingers
And I shall tell her all my soul suffered from;
I shall complain of the bouquet of roses
That pricked my hands despite the silk-ribbon
And scotch-tape woven around it carefully;
I shall tell her the tricks of the winds
Blowing roughly on me leaving all others
And of clouds that shower benign rain
On all others leaving me,
Though I stand under them with a bowl
In my hands raised skywards
Which stays ...
To Breeze! ! !
Play not with me O wanton Breeze!
enjoy with flower-laden trees...
speak! for whom you softly blow?
tell me whom you want to please?
my friends you know are far from me
but joys of friendship never cease.