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Time passes on-evening, night, and morn,
Touching each other-the shadow of trees,
Mother sits on the seeds,to feed her squab,
Spreading wings, to block cold breeze.
The squab is no squab, he is a pigeon,
He may be one, among flock of pigeons,,
The mother looks up for his home arrival,
Just to embrace, kiss her son, only once.
He will never come back to his home,
Mother will one day dissolve in Nature,
She will be soil,air,sky,forest, and rain,
In son's heart, she be, blurred signature.
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=keshav dubey=
1-5-26
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