She Writes Poems with the Colours of Life
She doesn't know the letters
But writes beautiful poems.
Chases darkness early from home,
Paints floors with sunlight.
Pours warmth into the fireplace,
Calls the dawn early at the daybreak.
Burns incense in the prayer room
Whence the fragrance of bliss travels upstairs,
To wake me up.
Home is fragrant with her poems.
It's she who wrote those roses
In the cheeks of the little daughter.
It's she who put the sweetest lisp
On their bud-like, tender lips.
The grace eyes glimpse in my house
Is a sheer creation of hers,
The ever-full baskets, granaries, cattle-sheds
Are all images she has created.
The green songs in the kitchen garden,
Solely belong to her,
The music the wind plucks
From the marshy paddy-fields,
Solely belongs to her.
A sweet music accompanies her
As she walks to and fro
Symphonies awake along with her
And spread in and out of the yard.
She with the thread of love stitches
Fallen off buttons, torn clothes;
Weaves dreams during her leisure,
Matching like flowers and the eyes;
Sprinkles grains of her generosity, and
Invites home the flight of pigeons,
It is she who nourishes hopes
Feeding them with Lord's blessings.
It is, indeed, she who wrote
This little world of mine,
It is she who writes poems
With the colours of life.
It is she who wrote the aura,
The glory glowing about my face, and
It's she who writes my being alive too
With red rhododendron on her brow.
