BEHIND THE HIMALAYAS…

My mother told me, it’s cold behind Himalayas,
She is forgetting the view as her hair turns gray.
I try to find traces of her footprints.
She is hibernating in her old age.

Behind the hill are her endless stories,
Not found in any library.
There's a hollow feeling in my mother's heart,
Where the wind blows into her emptiness.

Her stories crouch in the cold.
The bell of memory clangs around her.
I'm my mother's Saint Teresa,
Writing her worries and stories down...