My mother,
And my mother
Cannot write
Even her name
In her language.
And how dare you
To show me foreign one
To read and write.
For life,
The language of the mother
Is the root,
And not the foreign language.
The foreign language is
Like the color of turmeric,
Here it is and
Here it vanishes.
My mother,
And my mother is at present
Unable to cook,
Even for herself,
And she needs full help.
And being a common drudge
She is hardcore to the point.
Still, I obey my mother
To the point and she is
Greatest for me
And I ever lastingly
Believe her for all time.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I admire your utmost respect for your mother Gaja.