Thank you - Mom - you rockA mother love is everybody's first love.So is mine, and will always remain.Maa, Thanks for always being there.For being my best buddy.For doing every possible thing to make me happy.For all the time, support and moments we share.For shaping my personality.For encouraging me every time.For seeing dreams from me.And all the unconditional love.Now its my time.I wish and pray I can do the same.Wish me luck.Love ya Mom.Love of a full year, one day of recognitionLove of a lifetime.And you my dear God, you are great. Life is indeed a blessing in so many ways and its only you who could make such special creations.
My MomMother - a feminine manifestation of love. Love that is name of sacrifice for her when she doesn't eat something so her child (no longer a teen) can enjoy eating it. Love, which shapes up as hope when she wants her son to be best and succeed. Love molds into her pride when her darling walks up to the rostrum and gets an award. Love which turns into aggression so she can fight for his son's survival, fetching for him his well-deserved recognition. Love becomes support and guidance, ever ready to be given whether he wants it or not. Her love can be illustrated as a hug, as a pat on her back, or may it be a compliment or simply, magical and soothing "Love".My mom – a part of me, she is part of my life – most appropriately – she is my life. She is so very important I live through her breaths. I am her reflection, ambition, hope and faith and she is my mirror. Her love is unconditional, priceless and precious. Thank you my dear God for giving her to me as a blessing of yours.
Haunting Deja VuHaunting Déjà vuIt was Friday the 13th. The fairy angel was walking aimlessly whole night. The night, which was under the magical spell of full moon, betrayed the fairy by taking away all her magical powers. Though she still had her wings intact but now they were just reduced to ornamental prominence. She could no longer fly in the wind. The wind danced to the howling of the wolves and snatched the red roses out of the mother tree's hands. If fairies had blood in their bodies, she would have surely bled out completely from such treachery but her wings were red due to the color that roses shed to share sorrow with her. The bed of roses crushing under the angel's feet led to a grave. She was so engrossed in her spirit's hollowness that she didn't know she was in a graveyard. On reaching close, the sight and the mind started to converse with one another. Her consciousness took the message that her senses were trying to convey; it was her worldly name on the grave. But the fact sti