Mi Madre

My mother, like all mothers,
had hands almost holy,
and wore, on her forehead, a lovely kiss,
the one my brother and I gave her
every morning.

My mother, like all mothers,
was hardworking and pure as water
and sought, for me, and gave me
the deep treasures of her soul.

And I was a child and I loved her,
and there was nothing more beautiful than her face,
and there was no tenderness, more tenderness,
than that of those wordless eyes.

My mother was silence,
she was so gentle, so quiet,
she was very fragile, sometimes almost like a kiss
and I was her son and she loved me.

And we laughed together and danced
and planted roses and she said:
'You will be a poet in love
eternally with your poetry.'

And she would get sad and hug me,
and I was a child and I didn't know
about that sweet sadness she felt
when she talked about growing up and life.

My mother, like all mothers, worked,
and she had no set schedule, of course.
She worked, simply, cooked,
washed, cleaned, knitted, darned, mended, and all that.

And it was a warm winter, I remember, and she would tell me
stories of dragons and princes
and the hours passed and at bedtime
she waited for me to fall asleep, first, before leaving.

My mother, like all mothers,
never wanted me to leave her side,
and she argued, fiercely, with my father
and my father laughed and was my ally in that.

My mother, my unforgettable mother,
left me her reasons as inheritance,
those that I repeat every evening,
when I talk to my children about matters.

Don't lie, don't deceive yourself,
and walk firmly through life,
try to be honest, for the peace
of conscience is worth more than a wound.

My mother, like all mothers,
suffered and worried about my future,
and I, as all children,
understood that matter too late.

Today she's not here, she's gone, they took her away,
but I have, alive, her memory,
my mother, my unforgettable mother,
is the most beautiful treasure I have.