When I was young I wrote a flower verse for her.
Now I am old. Survived more because of her love. My mouth is dry of anything that more special than I have ever done. But to remember her. She has been a mother of many. Her love is wider than her own family. She has taken care of many. For she has loved them so. There are many who remember her. They have learned much from her. And yet among the many, I have been loved. Her child. Her joy. I love her. My mum.