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My Son [POEM]

mother holding baby hands at home

Playing your inconsequential games

You are growing.

Nothing remains the same

You are growing.

Your games will gain consequence,

Your warbling will acquire sense,

You will no more come

To lay your head on my lap,

You are growing.

 

It gives me pleasure,

It makes me afraid,

I will no more be able to pick you up

And kiss you better

When you fall,

Since you are growing.

 

I hope the consequences of

Your consequential games

Prove congenial.

Maybe

Then my protectiveness you will resent.

Therefore,

This moment I savour

When I mean to you a lot more.

Also read A Mother’s Heart [POEM]

Read more poems here.

Poetry lover? Check out Gitanjali: A Collection of Indian Poems by the Nobel Laureate

 

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