She was alone,
Sitting in a bench of a park,
In a shabby dress,
With her stick and baggage.
Her son has deserted her in grief,
What she expects now,
Only death,
Because no one to have
Sympathy on her.

I saw her tears
Wetting her innocent face,
I asked her the reason,
Then she told me her sad story
I made myself her son
And put my head in her lap
I felt as if she was my own mother,
She Loved and kissed my forehead like son,
Oh from my mouth,
The only word came
Mother (for me it is a holy word) .

I wiped her tears from her eyes,
I relieved her pain
And sang a hymn for her,
She felt serene and delighted
She poured her loved again and again over.
Smiled and laughed at me
Oh I felt that
I was the only one
Who felt her pain in her loneliness

© Pushkar Bisht