To Mater

If God be absent, wouldn’t you be the originator?
If world be an illusion, wouldn’t your womb be only home?
O mater, forgive us all, wouldn’t just a day be a sin?

Where ain’t you? Extolled in the tales of yore,
In the divine scriptures, in the words of the prophets,
In the muses of mystics, ever a God’s blessing.

Like in Praise of God, words may not suffice here either;
All trees may not be pens, all oceans be too scarce an ink,
Tell us only where to start; to end, we know, is a grave sin.

You give life in all ways, when you part or when you keep,
Who could bear what you do? Who could make gods sleep?
From labour pains to lullabies, you're what words can’t say.

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