The Hand That Rocks The Cradle

Holding my hands, she jubilantly led

Though growing up, I gainsaid

In her comfort of ignorant bliss,

In my yearning, to be distinct

Call me a zany zealot,

For I walked on her footprints,

Like a retinue artless,

In youthful egotism and naivete

My tot as in present,

I get, would be no different,

Hitting delusional errors, meaningless,

I see the pattern replicating itself

Time slips away like sand,

And yet simple things remain hard to understand,

Mother remains the ‘vade mecum’ ever,

Don’t the hands that rock the cradle rule the world?