I don’t remember my mother,

just in the middle of the game;

Sometimes there seems to be a tune,

swirl on my toy;

It was she who rocked my cradle,

the tunes hummed,

I don’t remember my mother.

But on an early autumn morning,

The fragrance of acacia flowers floats in the air;

The fragrance of morning prayers in the temple,

As if blowing the breath of a mother to me;

I don’t remember my mother,

only when I came out of the bedroom window;

Looking out at the distant blue sky,

I seem to think,

Mother fixed my eyes, which filled the whole sky.

—by Tagore

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