An Ode to My Mother
An Ode to My Mother2 mins 244 2 mins 244
Oh, mother! Inglorious ages past,
A beauteous halo sparked around thy brow;
Is that eagle pinion, chained down at last?
Where is that beauty?
Where is that reverence now?
Oh, mother! Have thy poisoned flowers paled?
Has thy victorious glory waned?
Have we, our mother, mortally maimed?
Like a curse in the dark night, how she wailed.
Oh, mother! Though the battle has been won,
Many deeds are yet to be done.
See how Fates River has now a dry run;
Now we must see a harsher sun!
Oh, mother! I was born,
When you were the model of youth’s art.
Though I did depart,
I return, now, to see not a kindly age.
Thy children have played a cruel part.
Oh, mother! It saddens me,
To see you maimed on the world's stage.
Send me on an errand,
Through the nether world;
I’ll gladly be your page.
Oh, mother! With your blessings,
I’ll break through slavery’s cage,
And bring back thy glorious golden age.
Today, we need no wizardly, old men,
But, a patriotic, young sage!
Oh, mother! You are a victim,
To the ravages, of time.
What crime has destroyed?
Thy beauty, sublime!
Oh, mother! Your sons departed,
Leaving you deformed.
Hoping, to win you back: with their skill.
Now those very children,
Have come for your kill!
Oh, mother! I minstrel for you: my motherland.
I come to do thy will.
Pray, make them view your rage,
As you break through this cage,
Paying them back; their own bitter pill.
Oh, mother! My heart is pure and true,
As I kneel before you.
And though time has passed,
I’ll once again raise your sacred mast.
Oh, mother! Though your death,
This mean, the world has seen,
Let me resurrect,
What you had once been.
Oh, mother! By the mountains at your head,
And the vast oceans at your feet,
Great seeds were sown,
But poor plowing is done!
Oh, mother! Let me harvest for thee,
Thy own, golden sheaf of wheat.
And if the golden heavens are true,
May my steadfast heart; never waiver in love for you.
Oh, mother! Your sons must now make a sacrifice,
So that hells fire might abate.
To break free from that gripping vice,
That’s held our mother in this state.
My mother! Be it by my blood rivers,
Or even, if I have to pass through heavens gate,
The peacock, that once danced; I’ll recreate.
Forever, I’ll sing, even with dying shivers,
My mother, you are great!