Mother, O' my dear mother!

With body aches all over

Old age of years ninety and four

Bed ridden like forever

Cells dying and lor

Wounds cropping up!

On Head. Legs, feet

In sorts of warp

That was my mother.

Poor soul!

Oh, but

Aching body, she does not have now!

Her soul has been set free

Of any physical pain!

Her body has been sent to the Gods above 

In the form of ashes

Through the modes

Of rivers

Then seas

Then oceans

And, finally, as the vapours of the waters

To the clouds above and beyond

And at last she can now 

Concentrate fully

On watching over all of us.

Her loved ones!