I may not be
a great child
But great children -
I've come to know.
They don't shower parents
with cash or prize
But they give them
in ample, their time.
When one is old,
weak and fragile
It's not the possessions
one wants by their side.
In the long wait,
many bid byes
Longing for the warmth
and care of their child.
Don't wait to cry
At their funeral pyres
To tell them they were always
On your mind.
Rush to them now
Hug, hold or fight.
Your tomorrows - put aside.
Didn't they, a hundred times?
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