How to tell you, What is softer than the skin of a baby, Softer than the feel of snow, Softer than the petals of a rose, How to tell you, Nothing is softer than your hand, Lying under my cheek, When I sleep; How to tell you, What is a hand without warmth, Or warmth without a hand, Or a 🌹without petals, Or petals without a 🌹, Or me without you,or you without me.
Photo credit: Anita Bacha.
This is the third poem entitled ‘How to tell you’ that I have penned down. I thought my readers would be confused to read (3) in the title. Enjoy! The picture was shot by me at the wedding of my friend, the groom,in Rajasthan. His hand decorated with henna in the picture. I am using the picture to illustrate my poem. There is no connection between the poem and the picture.
Her olive color skin, her long flowing black hair,
Her cute oval face and sweet, crying voice,
Her fragrance, vetiver interlaced with wild musk,
Tore my heart apart as I let go of her linen camisole;
She is my mother!
Locked in her arms, I snuggle, forgetful of the world,
Throwing my legs and arms in gleeful abandon,
Languidly I open my eyes,
Her loving, sky blue gaze,
Her porcelain white skin glowing in the sun light,
Her golden curls dancing around her pretty face,
Her perfume, carnation interlaced with red rose,
Fill my heart as I bury my head in her silken stole,
She is my mother!
Mother is the one who renounced me,
Mother is the one who found me,
Mother always will be
I am sharing this poem that I wrote a decade ago when I was Head of the Central Authority for Inter-country Adoption , set up by The Hague Conference , in Mauritius. Strange are the ways of God, I found.Not every bud becomes a flower; not every daughter becomes a mother.Anita Bacha.
God only knows, I saw your smile in the crescent of the moon, I saw your tears sashaying the window screen, Or was it raining on a full moon night, God only knows, I am madly in love with the idea of you, The scent of henna on my beloved’s hand, Breathes the perfume of rose in the desert sand, God only knows, How far the traveler has run around the globe, I saw your footprints in a puddle of water, I saw your fingers running in my tangled hair, Or was it the rustling of the mimosa leaves God only knows. Anita Bacha