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?
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