BY JOSEPH SEBOKA
Of all persons of mankind
Mom and Dad molded my mind.
They watched me day and night
They protected me from evil smite.
The tottering speech of the little boy
It always gave them exceeding joy.
They roared in laughter when’re I laughed
My childish utterance won their kind heart.
They listened to my innocent cry
As if I would fall and die.
With selfless love and commitment
Went I through great development.
I’m grateful to their pure love
That stands out of all things I have.
Of all persons of loving kind
Mom and Dad molded my mind.
Dear Mom
BY SUMIRAN MIRSHA & SAAKSHI KHATTRI
Since the day I was small
Till the day I became tall
Since I began understanding things
Till the day I got my own wings
Your love has never fallen short
You have been my only support
I want to hold you tight and hug you
I just want to say thank you.
A Mother
(ANONIMUS)
When you’re a child she walks before you
To set an example.
When you’re a teenager she walks behind you
To be there should you need her.
When you’re an adult she walks beside you
So that as two friends you can enjoy life together.
Being a Mother
BY GEORGE BERNARD SHAW
Being a mother means that your heart
Is no longer yours; it wanders
Wherever your children do.
To my Mother
BY LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON
O thou whose care sustained my infant years,
And taught my prattling lip each note of love;
Whose soothing voice breathed comfort to my fears,
And round my brow hope’s brightest garland wove;
To thee my lay is due, the simple song,
Which Nature gave me at life’s opening day;
To thee these rude, these untaught strains belong,
Whose heart indulgent will not spurn my lay.
O say, amid this wilderness of life,
What bosom would have throbbed like thine for me?
Who would have smiled responsive?—who in grief,
Would e’er have felt, and, feeling, grieved like thee?
Who would have guarded, with a falcon- eye,
Each trembling footstep or each sport of fear?
Who would have marked my bosom bounding high,
And clasped me to her heart, with love’s bright tear?
Who would have hung around my sleepless couch,
And fanned, with anxious hand, my burning brow?
Who would have fondly pressed my fevered lip,
In all the agony of love and wo?
None but a mother—none but one like thee,
Whose bloom has faded in the midnight watch;
Whose eye, for me, has lost its witchery,
Whose form has felt disease’s mildew touch.
Yes, thou hast lighted me to health and life,
By the bright lustre of thy youthful bloom—
Yes, thou hast wept so oft o’er every grief,
That wo hath traced thy brow with marks of gloom.
O then, to thee, this rude and simple song,
Which breathes of thankfulness and love for thee,
To thee, my mother, shall this lay belong,
Whose life is spent in toil and care for me.
The Ethiopian Herald May 12/2024
