Every year on Mother Day,
I have many words to say,
from here Old-Age home where I stay,
to my children who live far, far away,
who are too busy, a visit they rarely pay.

My hairs are becoming sparse and gray,
My teeth decay,
and break away,
My mind depresses and in dismay,
My nervous response slow and delays,
My memory forgetful and in disarray,
My legs weak and walk in sway,
I feel so gloomy when the day is without sun-rays,
I feel so scare when the night is without moon-light spray,
I keep the toys made of clay,
with which in your young age, you played,
to keep the boredom at bay.
I keep these toys to prevent sorrow which wants to slay,
my lonely heart which already is frail and frayed.

To my grandchildren, a Filial Piety, you need to display,
so that they would know how to obey,
to you when you are old in later days.
Otherwise they would say 'nay, '
and do according to the way,
you did to me before, down into the grave, I lay.