There are unacknowledged but telling epitomes, Mother: A poem

What is a word, Mother?

Is it as conflagrated with hope as a promise?

How do I even define you, Mother?

Does a word suit you like sublime?

How should I use a paraphrase, Mother?

That we are all predicamented by circumstance

And should we follow it up as a duty to fate?

What phoon is will or aspiration, then, Mother?

Is God equal to that or goes to lengths with our destinies?

How do we deliver love and service to complement faith in God?

Or does our philosophy of life hold any solutions,

when we are not even aware of all the questions we seek to ask?

Mother, you bore the love for the six of us,

and even the service to so many relatives’ children!

But am I angry with the wound in my own genitals?

We all have forbearance, duty, patience;

But I am not even asking for mutuality in all my lenity

For, if I am continually unrequited, I’ll still have gratitude

that is the grace of the embrace of Mum and Dad…!

Mother, when there is pain, should I look inward for sustenance?

Is Dharma to be respected even in the arrogantly demanding arc of the Karma?…

so magnified by you in all my eventual reckonings

The exemplary epitome that you and Dad administered to your children in silent fortitude

God lives in us in such sublimity and patience

Is that the answer to all our unresolved tribulations?