TO A PICTURE OF MY MOTHER
Your picture is so calm. You are other:
Proud, a bit, and embarrassed at being - my mother.
Accompanying me with a tear and a yielding smile
You never ask: "Who?"
You never wondered, never raged, when I came
To you daily demanding: "I need!"
With your own hands you gave all
Only because I am - me.
More than I, you remember today
My childhood's sorrows, and what your soul knew then:
The day your grown daughter would come to you,
She would bring with her grief that had grown up too.
Yes. I'll come broken, and not ask how you are.
I'll not cry in your arms, not whisper: "Mama!"
You'll know then:
He who left me was dearer to me than you,
And you'll never ask: "Who?"