O Mother, the thought of you is like sitting by the fireplace!: A poem 

O Mother, the thought of you is like sitting by the fireplace, 

an image of you – such innocence and simplicity in your face 

How you were so naive, you took everything so literally, 

yet you had a profound sense of dignity and equanimity in wisdom 

You had patience that was the axiom of your existence 

specific to the love of duty and duty as a servant of love 

I can be transfixed on the floor of such exotic education 

that was never preached but a subtle illuminating illustration 

This flame in my soul gives me the fullness of a whole 

I have an imagination that is the fruit of the trees of groundedness 

that has helped me withstand all the pressures of tribulation 

Even in my obduracy to resist placating the evil that wants to take hold of me! 

I have learnt from you that sympathy may just be a placebo 

not a prosthesis; true empathy may just be in getting on with the job, as you exemplified! 

But should I say it is my own tutoring to say forgiveness should be granted only to those who deserve it! 

Why are human prisons so full, then? What is the point of human justice 

if absolution should be granted to all and sundry? I can say, certainly, 

that many who deserve to be put into prison go scot-free! What about all those  

who committed perpetual crimes and treachery (Saint Paul, for one) against me! 

Is the law of the land blind to the Prime Minister and the Labor government  

who did that to me, as well? Mother, you never indulged in hypocrisy! I am painfully  

subject to it, so much so, that it violently hurts my dignity. Why Mother, 

 must everything I love and aspire for be subject to an imposed debauchery from me! 

Must I be deadpan and do my duty when even true love and all I love 

is compelled to be traitory  against me? Mustn’t there be a debourbage  

before the fermentation? Mustn’t I be inebriated by my own truth and justice?