On A Saturday Noon
As the clock struck twelve on a Saturday noon,
I would open the gates in delight,
My mother would be waiting and smiling,
The heavy bag seemed light,
As I tossed it aside and fell in her lap,
A sweet kiss on my cheek,
I still feel the wet.
I looked up the date today,
A Saturday it was,
The clock struck twelve,
As it did all those years back,
The gates, they seem harder to open,
The bag's heaviness weighs on,
I try to find my solace,
Forced to stare at my empty hands,
My cheeks seemed to get dry,
I fear, it will ever get wet again.
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