It is not, a furniture any more.
It smells of the sweet
sweat of my mother.
Who often sat, on the
rocking chair; with my children
on her soft lap.
Gently swinging, singing and
paving a way for them,
into the dream world.
As she has, made me achieve mine.
With strong and steady steps I
walked into the real swaying world.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem