Sixteen - Poem by Laa Finita
Of all things done, achieved or not,
of every try against all odds,
I know well enough,
they all walked, more or less, not too long.
But there was one, The One,
in which I mixed sense, tenderness,
intuition. I fixed limits
and I let go. My hand were firm but soft.
I heard pieces of advice,
I read a lot,
I watched similar situations,
but it was my heart, indeed, who decided all.
Now The One walks for herself,
and she likes me not.
For her I'm exaggerated, hideous
and, as related to fashion, more than old.
She thinks I'm strict, that my
words are not worth,
that I understand nothing,
and I'm sometimes mean, as a pet.
She may be right, in one or two points,
children don't bring tutorial manuals for every spot.
That perfect mothers don't exist, she has not a clue.
That I love her with all my heart,
does she ignore that too?
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