"A cosmos cradled, a stardust heart,
Birthed in pain, a masterpiece of art.
Days into nights bleed, a ceaseless tide ensues,
Shadows hidden, lullabies lost and askew.
A fragile bloom in tenderest care,
A mother's vigil, a fervent prayer.
In milk-white depths, a soul does feed,
A cosmic dance, a sacred creed.
A symphony of cries, a lullaby's plea,
In shadowed nights, a mother's reverie.
Nipples cracked, a tender, aching art,
A heart aflame, a mother's ardent part.
A fragile bloom, a tender, precious seed,
In nurturing hands, hope decreed.
With every coo, a world of joy unfurled,
A mother's spirit, a universe hurled.
Postpartum shadows, a melancholic hue,
A fragile psyche wounded anew.
In silent moments, a soul's deep cry,
A search for solace beneath the sky.
A balancing act, a delicate tightrope,
Career and motherhood, a hopeful elope.
With every challenge, a strength unveiled,
A mother's resilience forever hailed.
A tiny hand, a world to explore,
In curious eyes, a future to adore.
With every milestone, a heart's sweet ache,
A mother's love, a soulful awake.
With every breath and deep sigh,
The universe looks on as the mother strives,
Pushing through the muck and water,
Like an eternal lotus, does she bloom?
And so, the cradle, an ethereal sphere,
Where love is born, and hope is clear.
A bond unyielding, a soul entwined,
In this blessed journey, selfless love,
enshrined."
-Elegiac_Damsel
______
Third person's point of view:
Kolkata, India
October 30
The City of Joy, a sprawling metropolis wrapped in a timeless embrace of tradition and modernity, was settling into the rhythm of the late autumn evening. The sky, painted with hues of foggy purple, cast a melancholic glow over the city. A gentle breeze, carrying the sweet scent of fallen leaves and the distant aroma of fried snacks being sold by the dozens across every street, caressed the faces of weary commuters. The traffic, a relentless tide of honking vehicles, inched forward, a testament to the city's vibrant pulse. Amidst the chaos, life carried on - hawkers called out their wares, shops displayed their festive lights, and families gathered for evening prayers.
YOU ARE READING
Mrinalini♦
General FictionThe households in India have been run by women primarily, following the centuries old tradition. From taking care of the child's breakfast to ensuring that the mother in-law's morning cup of tea is served on time, it is always the woman of the house...
