Bow to the mother.
Touch her feet.
We fold our hands in temples.
Forget our parents at home.

From dawn to dusk,
she works unseen.
Helping us like a lamp.
Guarding our life.

She makes the house a temple.
She sweeps the floor.
She sings aarti.
She is the first teacher.

She serves the meal.
She packs the tiffin.
She sends us away with care.
Do we say, “Rest now”?

We are always in haste.
She waits at the door.
Do we bow our head?
Do we acknowledge?

We throw our shoes.
We scatter books.
She gathers all.
Do we ever thank?

At night she cooks again.
She scrubs the brass.
She spreads the bedding.
Do we smile with joy?

Shravan Kumar knew.
He carried them both.
On forest paths.
On sacred ground.

Blessed are the grateful.
Cursed are the blind.
Who forget the givers.
Who forget their roots.

Respect the father.
Respect the mother.
Their blessing is wealth.
Their word is dharma.

One day will come
We will loose them
We will miss them