I'M Sick Of Living Mother - Poem by Ramprasad Sen
I’m sick of living, Mother, sick.
Life and money have run out
But I go on crying “Tara, Tara,”
Hoping. You are the mother of all
And our nurse. You carry the Three Worlds
In Your belly.
So am I some orphan fallen out
Of the sky? And if You think I’m bad,
Remember, You’re the cord connecting
Every good and evil
And I’m a tool tied to illusion.
Your name can blot out fear
Of Death – so Shiva said,
But, Terrible One, You forget all that,
Absorbed in Shiva, Death, and Time.
Prasad says: Your games, Mother,
Are mysteries. You make and break.
You’ve broken me in this life.
[Translated by Leonard Nathan and Clinton Seely]
Comments about I'M Sick Of Living Mother by Ramprasad Sen
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
- Still I RiseMaya Angelou
- The Road Not TakenRobert Frost
- If You Forget MePablo Neruda
- DreamsLangston Hughes
- Annabel LeeEdgar Allan Poe
- IfRudyard Kipling
- Stopping By Woods On A Snowy EveningRobert Frost
- Do Not Stand At My Grave And WeepMary Elizabeth Frye
- I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love YouPablo Neruda
- TelevisionRoald Dahl