A paragon of patience, <br />A model of sacrifice, <br />Clad in clothes, <br />Rough, drab and dull. <br />Uncomplaining, silent and bland, <br />Remains busy like a bee, <br />From morn to eve with no rest <br />For the pleasure of husband <br />Who often talks to her, <br />Harsh, hard, and rude. <br />She collects dry sticks, <br />And fire wood from the forest, <br />Toiling up the steeps, <br />Walks to the home drooping, <br />The burden upon her back, <br />For the stock, <br />She labours on the farms, <br />Feed the children from the chest, <br />With the marrow and sap of bones, <br />Shields them against hunting vultures, <br />Of poverty, hunger and illness. <br />Her cottage with a small yard, <br />With a few hens, ducks and sheep, <br />And half naked shouting children, <br />Playing about bare-footed, <br />Is her Eden, the whole she gets, <br />To which she devotes, <br />Her youth, joys and existence. <br />In the dolorous work of kitchen, <br />It is pity, <br />She often gets herself burnt. <br /> <br />Strenuous labour brings on the face, <br />Wrinkles deep and long, <br />The rosy cheeks, fair fore-head, <br />The delicate lips, begin decaying, <br />Like too soon withering flowers. <br /> <br />I pay homage to the deities, <br />Grand, great and reverend, <br />Who pass away unknown, <br />Leaving behind their fragrance, <br />And fruit of struggle to the posterity.<br /><br />Muhammad Shanazar<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-paragon-mother/
