The Paragon (Mother)
A paragon of patience,
A model of sacrifice,
Clad in clothes,
Rough, drab and dull.
Uncomplaining, silent and bland,
Remains busy like a bee,
From morn to eve with no rest
For the pleasure of husband
Who often talks to her,
Harsh, hard, and rude.
She collects dry sticks,
And fire wood from the forest,
Toiling up the steeps,
Walks to the home drooping,
The burden upon her back,
For the stock,
She labours on the farms,
Feeds the children from the chest,
With the marrow and sap of bones,
Shields them against hunting vultures,
Of poverty, hunger and illness.
Her cottage with a small yard,
With a few hens, ducks and sheep,
And half naked shouting children,
Playing about bare-footed,
Is her Eden, the whole she gets,
To which she devotes,
Her youth, joys and existence.
In the dolorous work of kitchen,
It is pity,
She often gets herself burnt.
Strenuous labour brings on the face,
Wrinkles deep and long,
The rosy cheeks, fair fore-head,
The delicate lips, begin decaying,
Like too soon withering flowers.
I pay homage to the deities,
Grand, great and reverend,
Who pass away unknown,
Leaving behind their fragrance,
And fruit of struggle to the posterity.