My mother often looks at me with a strange look in her eyes,
Like her heart is saying one thing,
And her mouth wants to say something else,
Because my mother feels deep,
Oceans and oceans beneath skin,
And she never quite got used to the way,
I explode at the surface.
It is almost like,
With her pursed up lips,
She wants to tell me to be cautious Sahar,
Don’t wear your heart on your sleeve,
While the deeper part of her,
Loves the way I can rejoice,
It’s like she wants to say,
Dream big Sahar, dream high,
But she’s torn because she wants to warn me about bruises,
Should I fall,
Big black and blue flowers that spread across my path,
And leave a scent of regret.

I sometimes stare at her hands,
Neat calm hands,
That flit like little birds,
Folding tissues, and stirring pots,
And smoothing the hair away from my forehead,
Which in a thousand years,
Noone could ever do so gently,
and yet still brush away my troubles away so firmly,
I watch those hands,
And I imagine them trying to teach me patience,
While both of mine are trying to grab life as fast as it comes,

The most beautiful part of my mother,
Are her eyes,
They fill every cliche,
Soft, gentle and wise,
I imagine that when I first looked into them,
I must have cried,
At what I saw.
I still see too much in my mother’s eyes.
I’ve seen joy and pain and tears of both,
I’ve seen pride and disappointment,
Each shaking me to my core,
But what makes Mama’s eyes,
My own miracle,
My haven,
My lighthouse on stormy nights,
Is the love that shines,
As bright as a galaxy,
With unwavering light.


About saharsalman

Aspiring poet. Spectator of life. Words of Whim.
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