No more is she
The mother of our souls
Who gave up something more
Than her lonely pain
In shielded joy , limitless
Watching time fly by
slowly,
Year upon year,
From her laced curtain windows,
Sitting quietly by
Waiting for the return
Of her three children

No more is she
The mother of our dreams
Who taught us the art of
Sketching , in languid strokes bold
Upon a neat finite outline
Capturing the purity
And essence and feel
Of humanity and comradeship
And sharing
And much much more

No more is she
The mother of our fate
Who stood by her precious bonds
With her soft touch to reason,
And embraced life and living
With equal zeal,
And reach out,
With the warm stretch of her arms
To all precious animals around
needing her tender love and care
And so much much more…

No more is she
The mother of our destiny
Draped in pure white cotton
Of tenderness and hope
Of silence in suffering
Of devotion in pain
Of a warm wonder winter smile
Only to whisper softly

“I am there yet not there”
In the fantasy of our lives