Oh sweet mother… From the shadows of time
You call me through rustle of leaves to come.
In autumn, the acacia trees drop their leaves in the wind
— Above your sacred last resting place, over your dark crypt.
The trees mimic your speech, and with branches touch slowly.
The trees shall stroke you forever. You shall sleep eternally.
Now back to you dear. When I shall die, do not cry at my head.
Break a stem from the sacred linden tree, instead.
And plant the stem at my head carefully.
And, your tears shall drop on it suddenly.
One day, I may feel it casts a shade on my crypt.
Its shade shall grow on and on. I shall sleep with no end in sight.
And if we may die in each other’s company,
They shall not take us inside some walls of a sad cemetery.
They shall dig up our grave on a riverbank
And they shall place us in the same coffin.
So, you may be forever closer to me.
The waters shall shed tears on and on. We shall sleep eternally.
Poet's Notes about The Poem
(1880 April the 1st)
Comments about this poem (Oh, mother… by Peter Mamara )
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