(This is a small poem written years back for my daughter, when she was still a kid.)
'Why Sunday? '
My daughter asked.
'His work done, God rested
on the seventh day
and it was Sunday',
I concluded.
Sunday,
A week's work done
I rested in my armchair
A book in my hand.
In her study
She tried to convince
her mother, in vain.
Finally,
Exasperated
She asked me again
'Why Sunday? '
'Rest, dear,
A week's work done, ' I said.
'Just tell her that, '
She said, 'and let me play.'
I realised then, she, the mother,
Never had a Sunday!
Thank you, dear poet. I am grateful to you for reading the poem and sharing your thoughts and appreciation.
Whenever I happen to pay a revisit here, I tend to recall the days when our daughter was a young schoolgirl. Now, her daughter is two years old…
Whenever I read this poem, I remember my daughter as a little Child, running hither-thither with her mother right after her. Now, the daughter is a mother herself. And she too doesn't have a Sunday.! ! ☹️💖☂️🙏🥲
Average Women never have a Sunday, even today. I think this is true about 99% of the women all over the world
Poet Magadha Rani has added this poem to her favourites. Thank you Dear Poet. And Bri for the top score
This poem, I always cherish as a praise to Motherhood. I remember the true love of all mothers to their children. Selfless
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I give five stars.
I think, Bri is right. I should have imparted more clarity. Sure. On the other side, it still is a man's world. Man (me included) refuses to share the tasks at home voluntarily. They remain as woman's tasks.. Thank you Bri
Thank you Bri, for the revisit. I had posted a note as rejoinder to Bri here, yesterday. But it has failed to appear. Hence this.