Mother
A single autumn leaf falls in its lonely descent,
And the harsh, frost-bitten winter night
Was but the bitter wound of a mother’s heart.
Before us, she bore only worries for her children,
Yet we could not even fathom the depth of that pain.
The valley of this season, flowing without pause—
Whose vain, misplaced steps were they
That still make a mother’s hands grow so withered and old?
Like a river flowing, we walk along our own paths,
Yet as the twilight settles gracefully upon the village,
Her mind fills with thoughts of her children,
And again tonight, Mother cannot find her sleep.
Time flows, and we meet again, bickering and arguing,
But eventually, in the painful ache of time, a golden wave rises,
And lo, our mother collapses beneath its weight.
My young, tender heart wanders lost through the depths of her soul.
Moments later, falling into a quiet, breathless silence,
The gentle, beautiful eyes of our mother
Begin to drench my grieving soul.
When I remember my lonely, widowed mother,
Who used to knit the hours away,
I climb the distant hill and tune the rhythm of my song.
My painful, bone-aching youth wanders aimlessly here and there,
Yet her boundless, infinite love still awakens me to this day.
Even tonight, she silently falls away,
While I still wander and turn around that distant place.
Still, my mother gently caresses my hand,
Wiping away the tears that gather in my eyes.
Within this harsh, frost-bitten season of cruel winter,
My small stream still flows toward the edge of that frozen shore.
A single phrase, "I love you"—
Even now, it leaves me choking with tears.
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