I may not be a mother

Hence, unable in any way

To lecture one carrying on her bosom,

A child


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

With me,

Having me wonder

At the meaning of the life

That has been given to me

In a world which had then seemed

So beautiful,

Enlaced in the comfort that the elders

Had protected me with!

I may not be a mother,

But then,

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

Just because,

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!