A dead tree looks like a stone
Of thousand years black, fissured and tan-faced,
But still no hopes to fall down:
The secret is that she holds the invisible
Beauty steady and faithful.
Although she is dead by body but
Still alive in her warm sighs of beauty.

To make the unseen beauty visible,
You've to be poetic.
The body is reduced to ashes some day
But beauty never perishes.
Between a dead tree and a mother
I find a sweet simile!

When a mother holds a pen
The world comes to her feet,
And implores to be her slave.
Mother is a such a subtle flower
That blooms through all the year.

Mother is a wax
If someone good or evil
Comes to her, he or she becomes
Liquefied by her warm.

Mother is a blooming lotus in the nectar,
But that ambrosia becomes poisonous
When a hornet stings the lotus.

Literature isn't possible bare mother-
Even, except her there is no identity of father,
What we are today!
What we were yesterday!
And what we shall be-
All credit goes to mother: the symbol
Of all women.