Ah! Shed tears, no more, O, my mother.
Sorry, I can’t take your tears with me.
It’s just that I have taken your smiles.
But listen, O, my mother, as a lotus,
though remaining in water, is not
wetted by it. So am I, though dead
is not wetted by the death. Yes,
I shall rise again from the cremation
ground, to sleep yet again in your lap,
and wallop all four seasons in a single
nap, and hold you in my arms, at least
for a moment as the sky holds the clouds.
Tears at the death of this beautiful angel. But as the lotus is not wetted by remaining in water, so too it's beauty grows through the
silt-pure radiance in a murky pool. Incredible write, Bhuwan!
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Bobbi
love and peace...
Carole
silt-pure radiance in a murky pool. Incredible write, Bhuwan!