Mother
I was young when my dad left;
each day was a burden on its own.
Before he left, he and my mom would always quarrel,
and I saw her tears—like rivers flowing from her eyes.
The burden of motherhood caught up with her—
yet through love, even though her heart shimmered,
she stood by our side.
I remember how, in the streets of Valie, we slept.
Each day, she ran errands in the streets of men to feed us.
Her calmness was gone, and her beauty faded—
a queen now living among peasants.
Humble and meek was she,
never wanting anything except what could feed her children.
And each day, I saw her weep,
wondering where and how she could find home and comfort for her children.
I was troubled in my heart—though young, yet burdened—
and I began to steal from people,
because I wanted to feed her, in exchange for the love she showed us.
One day, I was caught and beaten—
death almost embraced me.
My mom was clouded in deep shadows of hopelessness,
for her son had brought her misery.
Her heart ached with sadness, pain, and sorrow—
and I could not hold my tears.
O, I broke her heart.
And I wish I could mend it.
A hawker who never rested,
a mother whose comfort was the happiness of her sons.
I weep, o I weep—
if only someone would hear me.
If only I could bring her back.
O light on high, take my life and let her breathe once more.
And in all her burden,
my younger brother turned against her,
for he found hope in the counsels of men.
The smoke of trees became his comforter.
She, with all her might, worked twice her strength,
for she thought her efforts were not enough.
Sadly, sickness found her.
And I was troubled and lost in my spirit—
for I had no hope.
For days we wandered, begging from house to house,
but none would come to our aid.
O, a great comforter had fallen—
a mother whose heart was worth more than a shilling.
Not even the gems of the heavens could replace her heart.
O moonlight, shine on this stone where I stand,
for a great treasure lieth here.
No, I will not forget,
nor shall my heart faint from the memories of thy comfort.
Now, I still live in the streets of Valie where you left us,
but the shadows of your sacrifice hold me.
He who reads my words—
this is a song to a mother,
no, not just a mother—but a hero.
This is no mere poem, but gold to me.
I cannot, and I will not be comforted,
until I see this hero once more.
Alas, she's gone,
but her memory—like the seal of an ancient king—can never be forgotten.
Her beauty echoes songs of victory in our hearts.
Yet I know, my brother has fallen into the order of the world—
but still, he never forgets your love.
Where now is darkness, your love shines.
And where now is hopelessness, your sacrifice strengthens.
Copyright ©
Bismark Finley Mensah
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