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“My mother - Contained God itself A tarnished look of pain A hand clutching her heart A love we can not name A fog or a smoke An infinite thirst for life (But the wing is dead under the frost.) My mother - Is an uncertain form She gets lost when she walks And we sit in the valley And I shelter her to my love My mother Is a broken sky That exhales day and night Its beauty. My mother - Is the scent of a hundred roses And the suffering of so many things My mother Is no more than a dream - I suppose Of those who are said lips closed And behind her veil She sleeps - my mother - And her star Do not doubt anymore of its light.” — Emmanuelle Soni-Dessaigne
My mother -
Contained God itself
A tarnished look of pain
A hand clutching her heart
A love we can not name
A fog or a smoke
An infinite thirst for life
(But the wing is dead under the frost.)
My mother -
Is an uncertain form
She gets lost when she walks
And we sit in the valley
And I shelter her to my love
My mother
Is a broken sky
That exhales day and night
Its beauty.
My mother -
Is the scent of a hundred roses
And the suffering of so many things
My mother
Is no more than a dream - I suppose
Of those who are said lips closed
And behind her veil
She sleeps - my mother -
And her star
Do not doubt anymore of its light.