Soaked in the tears of this home
Memories grind me into my bittered life.
Earlier days were lively in full bloom.
But soon got into this rancid life.
I was not the home minister, but
In the production of babies and dishes.
Not considered to be a prestigious post.
Unprofessionally professional was my status.
Cutting vegetables for curries and sambar
Grinding black gram and rice for dosas
Ooh la la la, for everyone at home, other
Than me finding no day for my own wishes.
Age has put me on the altar today.
Children ask me about wasted talents why?
What shall i say? that i sacrificed?
Or have i been a coward?
Ere shaken my mortal, chanting Rama Rama
Shall be the best resort to replace the wasted.
So Hare Rama, Hare Rama, Hare Rama!

Indira Renganathan

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hare-rama/