Mother is a story teller,

stories are written in her eyes

in her smile,when she worries

when she laughs

when she cries,on bent knees

and they way she crosses her fingers

to pray.

How she prays,

how she prays for us, for father too

and father is a story but stories are for storytellers

I am just  a child in love with stories and storytellers.


Mother is a bag of sunshine deep in winters hold

a luxury I am far too undeserving for.

She is home and I am a home sick child.

she is peace and joy and much than dictionary words

could explain.


Mother bleeds too much

she bleeds love from every artery her body holds

and her veins grow too jealous

so they bleed love too


Mother is a map of sacrifice

like how she goes hungry so even my nostrils

leak from my full belly.

and how she doesn’t sleep nights before

because she is at heavens gates

on my exam dates

cause success must be my only fate.

she wont accept less.

some days her voice is the only ritual

I need to stay alive,keep moving, not give up.


Other days when I give up on me,

it  gives her fresh oil for extra prayers

she laughs and tells me

she tells me she has enough faith

in me for the both of us.

my strength feeds on hers till I”m bold enough

to believe my dreams are valid again.



Mother is happy dust and summer rain

and fresh sprout flowers in spring

and sister,friend,teacher,discipline instiller

a god, hero and a language many hear of

and few can fluently speak


My mother is too beautiful to be captured in lines

and ink and  half baked poetry.



5 thoughts on “Storytellers.

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