A mother’s heart is always a mother’s heart
The breast milking for those toothless gum
I mourn for the dead children......
Are they not blessed?
I weep for those uncared infants.......
Are they not cursed?
I wail for those little hands searching
for the remnants in the garbage
And my hands stretching to all those
staggering little legs
The two little hands wiping my dining table
make my food undigested
The two little hands picking rotten grapes
from the gutter make me sick to the roots
The soft touch on my knees-two arms asking for alms
unwashed face, shabby tangled hair, loose big garments-unfitting
My heart picks these children home....
I carry them with me....anywhere....everywhere...
I look back...tight little fingers on my saree....
They follow me causing me discomfort
They pin me down to earth
They keep the floor burning hot for my legs
They keep my food half-way to the mouth
I want to do something......
Am I not helpless.......?
Am I helpless......?
Am I also not an orphan like them.......?