When I cried eagerly for the crescent Moon

I was a toddler
And still I remember
My deceased poor Mom
Gave me a big slice of Papaya.
Now I realized her unlimited love
When I count the black seeds of the fruit.

* To my dearest Mom! Sorry, I am a pauper and there is no way to publish my dream book of poetry, recently I tried few publishers in the Hell.They like to publish the anthology without a Red cent, but the only problem they say not a single head fond of reading poetry and still they struggle to fill their holey pockets with the dirty currency notes.

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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