When we were born,
From the time of our first cry,
Our mums and dads were our first bligh.
Toddling throughout the home, under their presence.
And come to rest at the time of gloam.
Then, we raised our tippie-toe feet towards the rhyming beats.
We took our little bags,
And started our journey with a drag.
Those tiny toes reach to the other caring hand of that beautiful lady who used to give a hug to make our day glad.
Now, days and years passed by,
When we turned from caterpillars to butterflies.
Busy in our rhythm,
Some are with chyme and some are in chime.
Some in creating and some are creatures.
Some in healing and some are poisons.
Some in fb while some are software creators.
Well, life carries on.
But the root of this reverence to lead a blissful hand comes from the nourished soil.
We were a seed who were sowed in soil
And the soil is what a teacher is.
From the first alphabet to the last letters of integrations.
She is not just a teacher, she is the one who guides us to the path of enlightenment, she is a mother who crafts the fingers to excel her pupil's art.
He too plays the role of not just an arrogant hunk, but a better half-father.
The love they give and the shield they build have never been taken for granted. Their hard work will always be as reflective as the moonlit in the mighty river.
The way you mend a broken soul day and night and prepare her to have a next fight will never be forgotten.
You made your lad succeed even a night day before those terrifying exams.
You guided her throughout to crack the competition. You burned your lamp to light her path.
You stayed awake all night till midnight to guide your disciples through the tough situations.
These sacrifices aren't to be kept quiet.
The saga continues to be.
You are an infinite, you are the bliss.
Without your contribution, we would have been in the abyss.

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