dear mother,

a short work to all mumma's out there with a little of old english gameplay.

Dearest Mother,
The parable of thou to that of thy children is much so that of the sun to the moon--
without the precious sun's light, the moon would be afar from a dazzling daze.
Without thy light of guidance, thy children (includeth I) shan't have a hope of even prospering in acts of simplicity.

I write to you words that have never been uttered truer, just with the intent to bringeth a smile on thee--and a hidden fact it ain't, that mightiest of weapons lay not in hands of warriors but much rather in-between the jaws. For words, oh mother, slash a deeper wound than that of swords--and yet these words too blossom sparks of love more than mere items could.

In saying so, my mother, I but remember the gem of a quote:
"A slip of the foot you may soon recover, but a slip of the tongue you may never get over." Take heed oh mother! for constant a time man insults and hurts another, oh mother purify thy heart the way thy purify thy cloths. [BENJAMIN FRANKLIN]

Oh my mother, for I love thee, do I tell: Live as long as thou want, but the hour of death shall arrive; love as thou please, but remember thou wilt be separated from it; and do as thou please, but a just repayment awaiteth.

Oh my mother, for I loveth thee, do I tell thou that thou art a lady of praise--and how so can thou not be when faith liveth in thy bosom?

Thy face giveth comfort to I like no other.
And oh mother, what shall I say of thy hands? If I call it so mere hands, then it is I who hath played a wordplay of heresy!
For...

A suckling babe in a cradle;
finds itself fervent with longing,
its heart plundered in moaning,

For a child in its mother's arms fareth better,
for laken in the mother's arms is love & joy,
with not even so much so as an inane play.

Oh my mother, I but wonder if thou too rummageth through inklings of memories.
Oh my mother, I but wonder if thou rememb'reth nights where my only earthly object of peace, away from whirlwinds of silent terrors, was thee.

Oh my mother, I but wonder if, hidden behind thy hazel eyes and abundant freckles, are stories in much multitude left untold.

Oh my mother, I but wonder if thou knoweth that thy love is a more marvelling beauty to I than that of when the sun shimmereth with a glint of mercy while the mountains, all over the horizons, embrace in an intimate kiss with the marvellous swollen clouds!

Oh my mother, I but wonder if thou knoweth that, if not more so, then, I loveth thee the way thou loveth I.

Oh my mother, I but wonder and marvel at the fact this earth is only a blessing from our Lord--and certainly one of the greatest blessings given must be the love of a mother.

And oh my mother, I but wonder if thou knoweth that I shan't ever prefereth a mother;
who is another!

And oh my mother, I but wonder if thou too shan't prefer a child who is another.
For. If thou do,
then fret not,
for I have father's number very much dialed!

Fondly,
Your child.

[ a little silly writing for all those mums out there, especially the ones in palestine. free, free palestine! ]