Atleast Don't Do That Sin Poem by Nikhil Parekh

We don't expect astoundingly extraordinary gifts from you; not even the most infinitesimal of bountiful commemorations,
But at least don't mercilessly trample over all the extraordinarily majestic that we tirelessly endeavor to shower upon you; at least don't do that sin to your severely ailing and old parents; dear children.

We don't expect compassionately invincible hugs from you; not even the most diminutive tear-drop of heart-rendering empathy,
But at least don't ruthlessly disown all our invincibly unshakable embraces towards you; at least don't do that sin to your inevitably decrepit and old parents; dear children.

We don't expect brilliantly insuperable victories from you; not even the most fugitive speck of altruistic martyrdom that would do us and our country proud,
But at least don't hedonistically spit on our indomitably unblemished victory of so royally procreating you; at least don't do that sin to your disastrously maimed and old parents; dear children.

We don't expect insurmountably infallible reverence from you; not even the most beguiling trace of sacrosanct dedication and honesty towards us,
But at least don't demonically desecrate over our timeless prayers for your eternal betterment; at least don't do that sin to your penuriously hapless and old parents; dear children.

We don't expect impeccably glorious truthfulness from you; not even the most evanescent trump card of unassailably burgeoning success,
But at least don't barbarously decimate our unshakably perpetual truthfulness for you; at least don't do that sin to your miserably withering and old parents; dear children.

We don't expect the entire wealth on this fathomless Universe from you; not even the most ephemeral castles of unchallengeable solidarity and heavenly ambrosia,
But at least don't insidiously annihilate the castle of royally celestial dreams that we had constructed solely for you; at least don't do that sin to your uncontrollably shivering and old parents; dear children.

We don't expect unceasingly endowing verses of symbiotic poetry from you; not even the most abstemious chunk of priceless humanity towards us,
But at least don't satanically transgress across our perennial love for you; at least don't do that sin to your helplessly staggering and old parents; dear children.


We don't expect everlastingly fragrant sharing from you; not even the most disheveled wisp of support towards us in treacherously cataclysmic apocalypses,
But at least don't lecherously chop our hands which wanted to forever exist only to regally protect you; at least don't do that sin to your impoverishedly orphaned and old parents; dear children.

We don't expect blissful rides on your exuberant shoulders; not even the most bedraggled piece of fructifying sublimation from you,
But at least don't diabolically torch our lips which knew nothing but to smile only for you; at least don't do that sin to your flagrantly disabled and old parents; dear children.

And we don't expect marvelously reinvigorating fireballs of breath from you; not even the most deteriorating corridor of optimistic light in your eyes for us,
But at least don't hedonistically snap the fangs of our life which we lived every unfurling minute solely for you; at least don't do that sin to your despairingly blinded and old parents; dear children