By O’ Mother
She installs you in her womb for nine,
What you demand, she gives, to get you fine.
At pregnancy, the affliction she bears to give you birth,
The device has not come yet to measure the pain in her heart.
The day you’re born when uncountable pains behind her smirk shine,
At midnights of severe winter, she awakes for the cry of thine.
Nothing she takes up to her mouth, but to yours first,
She never let the tears from your smashing eyes to burst.
The growth of your teeth delights her but delighter when you crawl,
She takes you by hand and saves you from every single fall.
She acts as a shield for you from every battle of life,
In any harsh situation with the world for you, she fights.
She does for her child what he fails for the price to pay,
One may get good if it becomes the soft flowers of her way.
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