(To my mother, may my first word become her light,
the epitaph in my soul, speaking of her life and my love for her!)Pain without gray hairAll my blessed lifeI have called out only one name,the word made holy by blood.MOTHER in all times,in all seasons.MOTHER in the garden,in the meadow of tears,MOTHER in bread and salt,on a mountain, in a palace.And whenever I go to her grave,without waiting for the customs of anniversaries,in that meadow of human bones,with the name “mother” I breathe the air there,I speak to my mother just the same,as I have spoken all my life.Amidst thousands of blades of grass,I find a little earth waiting for my fingers.I loosen it, then smooth it with my palm,just like in the old days,when I used to scratch her back,whenever the moon changed.Every grain of earth must have waited for my tear,to be watered so grass can sprout,her green eternity,without making even half the journey,in a life bound by chains.
