The palm of a bestowing hand,
a tendril's ringlet to the vine;
merely a primrose in the tare,
merely grape to wine.
Merely raindrops to swell a seed,
a candle lit to right a wrong;
merely the lips that loft a prayer,
merely breath to song.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Many mothers are, as we realize inretrospect.