www.pressaction.in
For as long as I can remember, The windows always glowed for me, In the room filled with quiet spring, And embroidered towels on the wall. In that sacred, peaceful chamber, A child’s heart would read and know Shevchenko’s kind and watchful eyes, And golden patterns in a row.
Mother, your children are like birds, Spreading wings into the sky. Mother, to your tender room, We’ll return again by and by.
That endless childhood temptation – Open the door and you will see, A table dressed in Sunday white And mother waiting patiently.
For as long as I can remember, That white cloth always shone so bright. In your room, dear mother, I know, Every day felt like Sunday light.
Maybe far from home and shelter, My wings will falter in the air. The star will fade, and after that – No more nightingales anywhere.
Son, remember this, my son – No matter where life takes your flight, All may leave their mother’s home, But none forget its gentle light.
Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *
Comment *
Name *
Email *
Website
Save my name, email, and website in this browser for the next time I comment.