This is like a symphony down to the T of you, Mother!
Because I wear patience like a grey cloak over me
just to still me as a thought of your own calm endurance;
This pathos on my skin, my nerves, my blood – filling me
with the poignancy that your maternal existence depicted
in a pride of dignity, that we were so privileged to have
permeate through our incandescent years out of you.
So, we were never languid, lethargic, in the enormity of
spirit that you gave us in a teaching bereft of words but
in a lingua familias of example. Sometimes, I feel the dawn caress
me like a feather, and I want to embrace yesterday! Sometimes,
the dusk holds me like a pillow and I even think aspirations can
wait with the demand of sacrifice, even in the morrow, like you
adhered, without weighing the consequences to yourself! Am I only
a footmark on the sands that seem to draw out time afresh,
because fossils are barely found where dunes keep growing.
But I remember many things like perfumes of flowers emanating
out of invisible relics; these icons that tell me that you were not just a
moment-memento of this lifetime. If I peel the shadows of
occlusion from all those strange citadels of recollections, and then, I
know you were always there for me. Mother, there is a key to every
horizon in my arms, not obscured by the treachery of evil; because
I have a vision that selflessness is a brave victory even in defeat!
Mother, you are like a beacon that shines this peerless philosophy!
