His Mother's Son Poem by Tatyough Terungwa Thomas

The night was soft, the stars were bright,
A mother held her child so tight.
Her weary tears became delight,
As dawn gave birth to morning light.

'My son, ' she said with gentle grace,
While joy and wonder filled her face.
She kissed his cheeks, his tiny hand,
Her precious gift, heaven had planned.

They played in fields of golden sun,
Their laughter danced, their hearts were one.
They sang sweet songs at break of day,
And chased the evening light away.

When night arrived with silver sleep,
She held him close and rocked him deep.
Through every fever, every cry,
She stayed beside him by and by.

The years rolled on like rivers wide,
The little boy grew tall with pride.
His mother gave and gave once more,
Yet discipline she oft ignored.

Each wish he spoke became command,
She placed the world within his hand.
What once was love began to spoil,
Like fertile ground that bore bad soil.

He learned to take but not to give,
Forgot the art of how to live.
His temper burned like summer flame,
And slowly pride became his name.

One fateful day dark anger rose,
As bitter winds disturb the rose.
Harsh words were thrown from son to mother,
Words that should never meet another.

She called his name with trembling breath,
Unknowing she was near to death.
In blinding rage, without clear sight,
His hand reached out in foolish spite.

A flash of steel, a dreadful cry,
The heavens seemed to mourn and sigh.
The knife he held in anger's storm
Had pierced the one who kept him warm.

She fell upon the silent floor,
The voice that sang would sing no more.
Her fading eyes still sought her son,
Though all the evil had been done.

He dropped the blade with shaking hand,
Like one who could not understand.
For there before his grieving eyes
Lay love no wealth could ever buy.

The hands that fed him every day,
The heart that chased his fears away,
Now cold beneath the evening sun,
Destroyed by her own cherished son.

He wept, but tears could not restore
The life that crossed death's solemn shore.
For some regrets no time can mend,
And some dark roads have bitter ends.

Remember this where'er you roam:
Kindness must first be taught at home.
A child may bear his mother's name,
Yet choices carve his grief or fame.

For love without the guiding rod
May drift away from paths of God.
And hearts once pure may come undone,
As happened to his mother's son.