your youth inks my mouth,
like silk spiders making webs,
I wear them like your sari’s,
as armour to protect from the jinns that come praying at my feet,
halva could warm stomach,
could heal the illness,
could sweeten the tongue,
but no amount of memory, no amount of trying and struggling,
could recreate you,
a figment of imagination, that is so out of reach,
not tangible to touch,
yet the ringing of your voice hasn’t stopped,
the need of a child for its mother,
is the closest thing I could describe it to,
I thought that wanting of a mother had stopped when I realised I had none,
but you gifted me with alms of love,
showered me in power, love, anger,
I see you in my dreams now,
glazed, untouched,
I even mourn in my dreams,
as if this reality wasn’t enough,
single tree swaying,
nesting those occupying for seasons,
they all leave,
the darkness sweats the sun off momentarily,
then she comes fighting back,
but I remain stranded,
the joy has all gone,
you remain like pearls in every thought of mine,
any good done, should be gifted to your deeds,
for they are not mine,
you were the Mother for those who had none,
Oh sweet Ama,
may your rivers be flowing in wine and gold,
may you rest in the highest skies of heaven,
reap what you sewed,
you will forever be in every breath,
every step I use to create,