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
To learn more please click: www.kidsclothbook.com