My mother at times came alive
Was granted the gift of the gab -
She gabbled on fixed overdrive -
A seamless past made up of blab -
But most of the time she said nowt.
Reminding me most of a pillar
Unreachable, steely throughout.
To kiss her would not be a thriller.
Quite senile. She cackled away.
‘Good gracious, how well you've been fed'
‘What times we once had, not today'
‘And when will you leave?' - and then dead.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Ek number chutiya poem hai aur sexy hai