The Paragon (Mother) - Poem by Muhammad Shanazar
A paragon of patience,
A model of sacrifice,
Clad in clothes,
Rough, drab and dull.
Uncomplaining, silent and bland,
Remains busy like a bee,
From morn to eve with no rest
For the pleasure of husband
Who often talks to her,
Harsh, hard, and rude.
She collects dry sticks,
And fire wood from the forest,
Toiling up the steeps,
Walks to the home drooping,
The burden upon her back,
For the stock,
She labours on the farms,
Feed the children from the chest,
With the marrow and sap of bones,
Shields them against hunting vultures,
Of poverty, hunger and illness.
Her cottage with a small yard,
With a few hens, ducks and sheep,
And half naked shouting children,
Playing about bare-footed,
Is her Eden, the whole she gets,
To which she devotes,
Her youth, joys and existence.
In the dolorous work of kitchen,
It is pity,
She often gets herself burnt.
Strenuous labour brings on the face,
Wrinkles deep and long,
The rosy cheeks, fair fore-head,
The delicate lips, begin decaying,
Like too soon withering flowers.
I pay homage to the deities,
Grand, great and reverend,
Who pass away unknown,
Leaving behind their fragrance,
And fruit of struggle to the posterity.
Comments about The Paragon (Mother) by Muhammad Shanazar
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye
A Dream Within A Dream
Edgar Allan Poe