Her past is black, yet she makes mine bright,

For the tears she shed, she sweats for my smiles,

For the tears I shed, she rips down blood,

Her push: the fuel for me to travel miles.

From the womb to my tomb, her love is all that matter,

The only lies justified- my mother's, 

Because I know if she does it would be for my better,

She is different, opposite but better than all others.

On all bad times only she'd be there for sure,

Am a part of her, I fed on a part of her, I still eat her alive,

Ungrateful! Yet she smiles, her love is pure,

I'm afraid nothing would ever replay her work in this life.

I am eternally grateful to all the Gods I so stubbornly hate for this wonderful gift called my mother. 

Chaahat