Mother, You

Many a times I felt your footsteps One after another, tiptoeing, afraid to intrude The niched life of your own son, caged in golden fetters Hitherto unknown to you, you remain the Angel Endlessly adoring me, though I have been traveling far Recklessly smearing my childhood with the soots of present You bear it silently, like the first dewdrops of Autumn Oscillating between past and present, present and past Undeterred by all the changes, you dust the old album