Sandhya means the hour of dusk.

When the sky is vividly painted

In rich hues of orange musk,
Strokes of ochre
And serene pink blues.

My mother is a modern art.
An interwoven patch up of
Concealed truths and a prickled heart.

A perfect blend
Of vice and merit,
Of a overgrown hassle
And full fledge planning.

A high crescendo
Of frost melting glare.
Blazing tempers and
Superfluous virtue flair.

She craves truth and lusts honesty.
Drunk on faith and addicted to loyalty.
Rhapsodic to her core and hates blasphemy.

Twines, vines, strings and curls
Of her will , orders, tweet-twitter words.
So therapeutic and extravagantly euphonious.

Cheese to my Margherita,
Chocolate to my s'mores.
Cherry on top of my pudding,
Calm to my soul.

She says, " World is too cruel,
It evinces, betrays and slates.
There is survival of the fittest,
And you must adapt to be your best "

She believes in inner beauty,
For her appearances are transitory.
Plants and greenery are her aesthetics.
Music and songs her amateur antics.

Pious to a high degree,
Sacrilegious and God fearing.
For her " To err is human,
And too repeat that error
is a sure crime"

Assumptions are her weakness.
An over-enthusiast tongue, a looped sling.
Unwrapped anger and unmatched pride,
Her pushing for frequent mental suicide.

But as it is often believed,
Idealism is too cliche,
Perfection is often bleached.
Allurity is rarely found in crowds.
It's, perverse and dark
Decorated with virtue shards.

Some honed to fatal instincts
Some blunt with subtle merits
Some sharp enough to shatter claims
Some smooth enough to pass as innate.

My mother is such an allurance,
A test of your worldly endurance.
A multitude of rarity in its ordinary own.
She is a diamond that doesn't refracts but shones.

They say, mothers end all bane.
I say, my mother is an all cure medicament.
They say, mothers bleed red for their child.
I say, my mother's veins flow with God's ichor.
They say, mothers are godsend.
I say, my mother is herself God incarnate.

These mere strings of alphabet
Don't offer her justice.
The epistemology of her,
shall never end.
Infinite as my mother is ,
Her wildfire beauty
is far beyond me to comprehend.

Sandhya is not just an other person,
She is the souvenir every one desires.
A multi -genre one-off novel,
Evoking fumes of unmatched passion and iré.

She is my brandy, whiskey, rum and ale,
Her personality is equal parts jovial, seraphic and morally gray.
I hate hugs, but hers is the one I cherish every day.
And i wish you today mom, a very happy birthday.