A mother's lullaby.

Lulling chants of poetry in a young honeyed voice,
Touch upon leaves and grasses,
And linger in tender ears,
Imparting lessons of love.

Sleepers wake to the sound,
Enriched and fulfilled.
They look with glazed eyes,
At the beauty of the music.

The haunts of the songs,
Know no limits or restrictions,
And the listeners try in vain,
To discover source of these ripples.

Ripples of war and ripples of peace,
From the deep blue oceans and the flighty sky.
Ripples of love and ripples of hatred,
Sacred as a child.

Ripples of ingrained desire,
Creeping subtly to the eyes,
of bronzed and sinuous women,
With the rythmns of the music stirring them from within.

The swirling lyrical music,
Makes fluid waves in air.
The leaves rustle to its beat,
And water flows to its tune.

The music yet unfound and hardly comprehended,
Forms its languid shape in my little mind,
Trckling through my senses,
LIke a mother's lullaby.

[My this dedicated to my mother. I would wake up to the sound of her beautiful voice, filtering through a vent as she worked down stairs.]