Tell Me More, My Love, How Much You Love Me,
When I Am Hungry, Chill Me With A Kiss.

Endlessly Proclaim Your Admiration,
Never Try To Hide Your Fascination,

Though At Times I May Do Aught Amiss.
You, Of Course, May Ask The Same Of Me.

That You Put Nothing In Your Life Above Me
Will Aid In Me A Similar Dedication.

Only Thus Do Lovers Spin Their Bliss.

Ritu

Grandmothers Are Mothers Who Are Grand,
Restoring The Sense That Our Most Precious Things

Are Those That Do Not Change Much Over Time.
No Love Of Childhood Is More Sublime,

Demanding Little, Giving On Demand,
More Inclined Than Most To Grant The Wings

On Which We Fly Off To Enchanted Lands.
Though Grandmothers Must Serve As Second Mothers,

Helping Out With Young And Restless Hearts,
Each Has All The Patience Wisdom Brings,

Remembering Our Passions More Than Others,
Soothing Us With Old And Well-Honed Arts.

Great Bosses Grant The Glory They Receive,
Offering Their Praise And Their Devotion.

On Them The Mantle Settles Like A Cloak
Designed To Shelter Lots Of Little Folk,

Bearing Them Along In Its Emotion.
Yet Freely We Give More Than We Receive,

Eager To Float That Ship Upon Our Ocean.

If I Could Give My Mom The World
Or Anything She Wanted,

I’d Give Her My Own Heart And Soul
And Leave My Own Heart Haunted.

I’d Take Upon Myself Her Life
With All Its Strife And Pain,

And Let Her Ease Into Some Space
Where She Could Live Again.

The Pain For Me Would Not Be Pain,
At Least Not For A While;

For I’d Be Doing It For Her,
And I Would See Her Smile.

Behold The Mother With Her Newborn Child!
An Icon Of A Hope That Never Dies.

Death May Label All We Cherish Lies,
Yet This Love Lies Too Deep To Be Defiled.

We Clear An Inner Field Where Fate Has Smiled,
Letting Play The Pleasures Of Surmise,

Holding Back All Contrary Replies,
As Though Our Thoughts Might Turn The Winters Mild.

Despite The Well-Known Travesties Of Time,
Each Time A Child Is Born We Dream Anew,

For Only Thus Our Losses Are Regained.
Though We Must Share The Destiny Of Slime,

No Passion In Our Palette Is More True
Than That Which Cradles Innocence Unstained