My letter is to all children, young and old, with mothers.
We seem to put them on hold, till we need them.
We forget the nine months they carried us.
The first arms are hers, the very food, a bottle or breast, the changes we need, our first fall, the gentle touch.
When we asked for something she couldn't give, we thought her mean.
When the food was low, she would fall once more to her knees asking for help.
In bed, she would wait for the sound of our footsteps before closing her eyes.
As we get older, we move away, promising to keep in touch.
The days turn into weeks.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem