My mother is spring - Poet and Professor Sanaa Shujaa

My mother is spring, and a flower whose fragrance is pure.

The song of existence, a radiant, abundant light.

Winter comes, and spring soothes it.

For the sake of a wing whose rib is healing
My mother is existence itself, and how could I deny her?

It is the hope of every rising sun.

The ribs awaken: Where is my mother? they ask us.

Until we answer with the light of your warm gaze
My mother is a garment, a thread of purity and peace.

He blocked the winds, he protected our sleeping rib

He embraced the pens, and surrendered them to the hands.

The morning dawned, its light shining brightly...enough
My mother is longing, and how can I live if she weakens?

The glow of the call, “Ah, Menhali Al-Rafi?”

I walk through rough terrain, my feet bleeding.

For healing, with His gracious help...and complete
My mother is dust, and is there any happiness that can reach her?

A comforting embrace, yet the pulse of your soul is dry.

It comes with a quenching of the frost of our seasons.

For the well-being of the one who rests peacefully, sleep soundly