I may not be a mother
Hence, unable in any way
To lecture one carrying on her bosom,
There was a time when
I was myself a child,
Laughing at silly things
As soap bubbles bursting
At the tips of my fingers
At the way my shadow would
Follow me and play magician’s games
Having me wonder
At the meaning of the life
That has been given to me
In a world which had then seemed
Enlaced in the comfort that the elders
Had protected me with!
I may not be a mother,
The little that I know about parenting
Is that anyone bringing forth
A child upon this Earth
Has some duty towards him
As long as he would require it!
Children are not meant to be made to spawn
Just because the pulls of our senses
Required us to
Or because we fear the future
Knowing that our old bones
Would need younger hands to carry us
To our dining table or,
Anywhere else where we would need to go!
Children are certainly not meant to be brought to Earth
Merely because the society wants us to
Respectable living requires it,
It has always been so!
Rather, it is to be understood that
We are chosen by the forces guiding us
To be the vessels through which
Our children would come to carry their duties here
And we do have, towards them,
Some forms of obligations,
As long as they would still be needing us!
Children are very well the way
Through which we absolve our sins
And return to the skies;
There where golden clouds shine forth
Merely to be admired by one and all!
Are the divine form of humanity,
Bearing in them,
Innocence and goodness
And all we have to do to keep them well
Is to take good care of them
Specially if we brought them to be!