ritual of gratitude

The early mornings-
Filled with familiar voices.
The usual tone of surprise,
“Why are you up before time?”

The English translation-
A feeble attempt,
To express the emotions,
Gracing these words.

I embrace her,
The everyday ritual,
Wishing a happy morning,
Mission accomplished.

Warmth fills my soul,
As she engulfs me,
With her love and kindness,
And dreary morning eyes.

“Is there anything for me to do?”
Always the same question,
In a language not demanding,
So many syllables.

She shakes her head,
And caresses my hair,
I feel her calloused hands,
On my sleepy cheek.

I always beg,
For something to do,
To make her mornings,
Delay by a couple of hours.

I am not allowed.
It is against her nature.
My sole job: to study,
Make the most of these youthful years.

I pray for my hands to be calloused,
So hers can be soft again.
I pray for my eyes to be dreary,
So that her can sleep till late.

But she hurries me back,
To the bed.
I am ordered to sleep,
The plain old morning routine.

After this commotion,
The first question lays forgotten.
I don’t bring it up,
For I know her reaction.

I don’t tell her and never will,
The reason for my open eyes.
For she would frown,
At the foolishness of my being.

But every morning,
At five, I lay awake,
Merely for this custom,
Spanning at least ten years.

With a small hope,
That my action conveys,
My gratefulness-
For her existence.

Every morning smile I receive,
Makes me survive.
And my mother,
Forever, my life.

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