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Tears trickling down my mother's cheeks,

I bend forward to give her

A comforting hug and 

She pushes me away saying

The burn from last Sunday's curry still hurts 

And I look at her hand 

And see this yellowish lump 

Making me all guilty.

My head stoops low 

And I see her legs and mine,

A dry plateau, a plain

And I wonder how much should it erode

For a plain to become a plateau

Those sad looking eyes, half torn ears

Always deny the absence of happiness 

Instead use words like 'scared', 'afraid' and 'worried'.

One day, She goes on and insists 

How satisfied she is 

With two lovely daughters and a loving husband and yet another day, 

She tells us about how she is tired

And I try to make sense, 

Bring comfort doing especially nothing

But mere words 

And I wonder if she regrets having me 

Cause I would If it was me.

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