984. Of What Use Am I Born? Poem by Raman Savithiri

Amma, of what use am I born?

The beatings from a blacksmith’s expert hand,
Received by an iron piece,
Turns it into a sparkling swift sword.

Year after year,
You too beat me with all kinds of suffering;
But, still I turn not to be of any useful thing!

The persistent burning of a raw gold piece,
By the hand of a creative goldsmith,
Makes it pure and ever shining ornament.

Year after year,
You too burn me in severe ordeals;
But, still I become not pure!

The enduring gardener, nips the sick stems,
Cuts and throws away surplus twigs,
To make the plant bear fruit soon.

Year after year,
You too weed out futile desires and relations,
But, still I bore not any fruit!

Of what use You tenderly rendered me?