Mother, who had thanked,
She had thanked me for a cake,
One of pink and red and white,
One of violet and blue and green.
A cake meant for Mother,
A rosy-cheeked, proud mother.
A woman of thrill, punished by will,
A will to protect, a will to end.
To end the agony from a child’s lips,
As that child screamed and screamed.
By her fingers, do I know?
By her gaze, do I know?
By her wisdom, do I know?
Do I know my life, from the plenty she gathered?
Do I know my way, with the miles she furthered?
With me in arms, and soon, another day.
The beauty that rests on her pinkish lips,
Mother, the sweet, the cherished, the lovely.
To the sweet remembrances of yesterday,
To the new pains of tomorrow,
Another day, for the song,
Another day, for the smile,
Another day, for the laughter.
She is Mother, the Holiest of words,
To ever been sung by reddest of birds.