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.