She begins her worship
of the holy cradle, her hearthand the source of manna,
in the only way she knows.
Her limited access-key to the
vocal chambers is enough for her
fresh soul to render flawless emotions
in a flowing, free-versed Raga
that tickles a mother
- smiling with pride and joy.
She leans on her plush throne,
while morning glows in her sunshine song.
(My neighbour’s baby's song I wake up to these days...)
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