She: the producer of life

No matter how many times I tried, it could not come out;

When a philosophy was scattered in the pages, "The ocean was made of words, flowing through the eyes, that too was filtered."

I thought of writing a poem to hum it in a melodious tune,

But there is no song that would

be enough to depict your love : 'unconditional'.

The one who once sat under the banyan, I found that there is no shade like your lap, fame and digging aside.

There is no sense like your affection.

There is no way to store you in a piece of paper.

All the efforts to put you into words went in vain,

God's narration :

"Leave it stubborn, you are not such a writer who can bind your mother."