By Maisha Khondekar
The subtle breeze blows over the palette of different hues—
The blooming current of swaying roses, the ones she grew.
She painted each corner of her home with those colors from her palette,
Reflected in each who breathes in this realm of hers—
Who searches for peace in this eclipse of order,
In this abundance of love and compassion
That blossoms only in this realm of hers.
Have you ever heard of the weeping shepherds?
Who weep over the herd of sheep
They lost in the midst of their trip
Through the woods and deep?
As they lose hope, they find their kids—
The herd of sheep—by will or wile… so they weep, meanwhile.
But allow me to present you my mother—
She who does it like no other.
She didn’t lose hope like the weeping shepherd.
With her calloused skin and her stories unheard,
She fought her way through death
Just to keep her children fine and alive,
Just to keep it all intact and pristine—
Giving you no clue of everything that's wrong,
Because she can make it all look so right.