Playing with Thou, one morn*

Playing with You,
Mother, one morn of Spring
Coming in through
The windows
Into our parlour of a room,

How i still remember quite,
Both of us being drenched
By the morning's sweet sweet light,

The jars of glass had bouquets
Of Roses blooming soft,
Their fragrance filled you so,
Mother, how to You, through poems i , like a child , forever go,

Wilt there be any end
To our Love such
Whence in every possible way
You, the Light of the day,
My Heart, send across Love so much,

Nay, mother mine,
For , forever, wilt i be Thine,
Eulogising You,
Your kindness which drops as dew
On leaves, petals, so oft,

Wilt there be any end to That?
Never, for, springs, autumns, summers, monsoons, winters,
You hath always sent me jitters
Filled with Love and Light wonderous,

As found by poets, artists, philosophers,

They all talked of You,
Your awesome Halo,

How with the breaking of the day,
Playing with you, as if,
Me finds You more, in my childhood,

Will that ever fade, say,
Whence i find a Child ,
With You, at a parlour
Of a room, one morning,
Of a beautiful Day.

(*Note : loosely based on a painting as attached, as received by me, from a bud mine.
Courtesy : V. Volegov)

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