My mother – poem

by suleimanharuna


My mother

Cast that mound off your front

And behold a poet!

Do you reckon, a poet?

That noisy, writy chap

Who writes about everything and all?

Yes, me.

Woes, pleasures, and dreams

I write on dress, paper or palm

And the whole world claps

But come . . .

What of you? My mother

Why? Having hugged me

For three years about you

Have I not written a word?

When I have written

About the farthest sun

And the darkest night?

You . . .

Who loved and petted me like a baby-king

And sung prayers of greatness in my ears

That today have come real.

But . . .

I’ll pay my debts

And offer sacrifices

For the grave oversight

And sing a song of atonement

For you, my mother.

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