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Personal Note:
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Poem
O mother, who was so beautiful, yet, troubled with everything 
that may affect on the son’s well being; and therefore, grew old.

O mother, who was so elegant, yet, was so concerned about her son;
she always worried and was thinking what if the son wet from 
the spring mist, or what if the son falls on the flowerbed;
and therefore, grew senile.

O mother, such a great and virtuous, is well stricken by the years of moons, winds, stars, and clouds, and now, clumsily clinging on the trunk of a big tree, the grown son who stands tall with the root taken deeply in the ground, as a withered thin branch.

When a rain poured violently, the mother who never had a day 
of peace thinking of her son, became an umbrella over my head. 
When a blizzard raged, the mother who never had a day of serenity 
worrying over her son, became a blanket over my body.

Although the umbrella was old, beaten, and spokes were broken,
a drop of rain was unable to wet me. Although the blanket was the rags
sewed here and patched there, the blizzard was unable to take my body heat away.

To give a life to the son, I know the mother,
you underwent the excruciating labor pain,
the pain that is more painful than the chopping yourself with an ax.
To bring up the child as a decent man, I know the mother,
you underwent the trouble after troubles of trials caused by
your mischievous son.

You were the woman of great heart and sagacity,
you, therefore, were able to accept all circumstances with equanimity,
good and ill, joys and sorrows, honors and dishonors;
you offered your life and all to your son with love, 
understanding, and patience.

O mother, though you knew it was useless,
you stretched the withered thin branch out in air
to shut out a wild wind that was shaking the tree from the trunk.

O mother, though you knew that the wind was
beyond your strength to hold, but you did anyway,
because you loved your son so much; and as a consequence,
you were violently blown out from the trunk to fall on the ground.

Dear mother, you are, from the tomb where you are lying
as a little stone pillow on the grass,
recalling the memories of happy and joyful moments
while looking at your son proudly; recalling the memories 
of tired and sorrowful moments while looking at your son worriedly.
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