Mother never told me

Her legs were as smooth as the surface on which I wrote the words filled with desire,

Mother never told me women could be a poem less appreciated by mankind.

Mother never mentioned for once that women can be an impulsive obsession if one, held their essence in the Mind.

Her hair not on the head but on the skin, a bit of mosaic growth, was less attended upon.

But I loved different forms of her expression.

You see, mother never told me this, yet, I observed.

The beauty, less known, is in a womb where a fragile foetus lies, it will form into a female human.

And she will get murdered.

Mother never told me — “why?”

Still I saw,

Now I speak,

Here I live.

How curious I have become to the fact that women have beauty in each moment if you discover.

Her eyes flashing each second,

Meeting this new world without any regret or shame.

Yes, these women, about whom my mother never dared to discuss.

I stand here romanticising about.