Mother
A mother is a boundless source of tenderness and compassion. She protects her child from harm and stands by their side during illness. She nurtures them in their childhood, offers prayers for their success in youth, and takes pride in their achievements, rejoicing at the sight of her grandchildren. The debt of gratitude owed to mothers is universally acknowledged, and no words or verses can fully capture their significance. A mother embodies love, tirelessly wishing for the best for her children. Therefore, those who have the privilege of having a mother to kiss her hands every day, to pray for her, and to fulfill her wishes are truly blessed. In this article, we present some of the most beautiful words and poems dedicated to mothers.
The Most Beautiful Expressions of a Mother’s Love
- I believe that mothers are small homelands; within each mother lies a sanctuary we cherish and take pride in.
- She is the only one who encompasses all; she is life itself—my mother.
- You will always see that your mother is right.
- O my mother, you are a repository of beautiful meanings, my lifeline from the tribulations of the world.
- Ask me about love, and I will reply: the heart of my mother.
- Nothing else matters to me about the holiday except for my mother’s happiness.
- While others chase after beautiful things, my quest, dear mother, is for the hidden tranquility in your eyes.
- Nothing grants love like the heart of a mother who has sacrificed herself for your sake.
- Today, I see you more beautiful than ever, nourished by the purity of your hands; when they say life, I say my mother, from your love I draw strength.
- No one resembles you, dear mother. You are my moon in the darkest of nights—my sunlight in the morning. I live through you and have learned the meaning of unconditional love at your hands.
- When all friends and loved ones fade away, you will remain, my mother; you are my entire homeland.
- A mother is a source of security and a fountain of tenderness.
- No one else compares to my mother. I embrace her whenever I wish, and every longing for her brings me to her. She is my friend, my beloved; she is me.
- This life feels empty without my mother, and it is agonizing to the point of tears when her laughter is absent.
- Peace be upon my mother, the first homeland and the final refuge.
Reflections on Motherhood
Reflection One:
Each of us experiences genuine emotions and intense feelings, swaying between love, hate, compassion, and kindness. However, the truest of these emotions is a mother’s love for her child. It is the most noble and purest form of love. A child may find it hard to articulate such feelings. Words may falter, and they might feel betrayed by their emotions and pens when attempting expression. How can one thank the woman who carried them in her womb for nine months? How can one convey love to the one who spent sleepless nights beside them when they were unwell? How can they express gratitude to the one who toiled and struggled to raise them? Twenty-eight letters of the alphabet cannot adequately describe the completeness of a mother; she is warmth and tenderness. She is the only one who will love you unconditionally, regardless of circumstances. To those fortunate enough to have a mother to cherish, to those who lay down at night knowing she is in her bed praying for your success, no other person can take her place. A mother is a unique blessing from God; no one can substitute her. So hasten, you who angered your mother before leaving, you who left her alone in sickness, you who know she is displeased. Rush to her, for paradise lies beneath her feet. She will not come again into your life; hurry before she departs, for she is the one who loves you, no matter what.
Reflection Two:
Words betray me, and my tongue fails to express while tears choke me whenever I see the lines of age decorating your cheeks. Each time I witness the fatigue of years settling upon you, O my mother, source of my happiness, embrace me for you are the only shoulder that alleviates the burden of my years. O mother, let your blessed hands touch my cheeks, for they are the only hands I long to rest my head upon when the world feels heavy. Your embrace is the only sanctuary that liberates me from my worries. Stroke my hair with your hands; I miss the warmth of your affection. O mother, tell me a story and sing gently with your sweet voice, for whenever I see you, I yearn for my childhood. No matter how old I grow, I remain your beloved child who refuses to grow up amidst your embrace.
Reflection Three:
O you who endured hardship and sufferings for my sake, softening the obstacles of life and smoothing the thorns to bring me joy. With your hands, you transformed challenges into gardens and green oases, enriching my world with song. What an extraordinary word ‘mother’ is within the realm of love.
A Poem: Five Letters to My Mother
The poet Nizar Tawfiq Qabbani was born on March 21, 1923, in a historic neighborhood of Damascus. He began writing poetry at the age of sixteen and graduated from the National Scientific College in Damascus. He later enrolled in the Faculty of Law at the University of Syria and graduated in 1944 before entering the diplomatic service, living in cities including Cairo, Ankara, London, Madrid, and Beijing. His first collection, titled ‘The Dark-Haired Girl Spoke to Me,’ was published in 1944, and all of Qabbani’s works have been compiled into comprehensive collections. He composed a poem titled ‘Five Letters to My Mother’ in which he expressed:
Good morning, my lovely.
Good morning, my sweet saint.
Two years have passed, O my mother,
Since the boy who embarked
On his mythical journey
And hid in his suitcases
The mornings of his green homeland,
Its stars, its rivers, and its red horizon.
He hid in his clothes
Mint leaves and thyme;
And a Damascus violet.
I am alone…
The smoke from my cigarettes bores me,
And my chair, too, bores me.
My sorrows are birds,
Still searching for a place to land.
I have known the women of Europe,
I have known the feelings of concrete and wood.
I have known the weariness of civilization.
I traveled India, I traveled the Indus, I traveled the yellow world,
Yet I found not a woman who would comb my golden hair,
And carry in her bag for me sweet candy,
Dress me when I am bare,
And lift me when I falter.
Oh my mother…
Oh my mother…
I am the boy who set sail
Yet still, in my thoughts,
The sugar bride lives on.
So how, oh mother,
Have I become a father
Without having grown up?
Good morning from Madrid,
What news of the jasmine?
I urge you, dear mother,
To take care of that little girl,
For she was the beloved of my father.
He would pamper her as a child,
Invite her to his cup of coffee,
Feed her and drink with her,
And envelop her in his mercy.
… And father died,
But she still lives in the dream of his return,
Searching for him in every corner of his room,
Asking after his cloak,
Asking after his newspaper,
And asking — when summer comes —
About the cerulean of his eyes,
To sprinkle on his palms
Gold coins.
Regards…
Regards…
To a house that has nourished us with love and mercy,
To your white flowers… the joy of ‘Star Square’,
To my bedding,
To my books,
To the children of our neighborhood,
And to the walls we filled
With a chaos of our writing.
To lazy cats
That sleep on our morning
And the climbing violet
On our neighbor’s window.
Two years have passed, oh mother,
And the face of Damascus,
A bird pecks at our insides,
Bitten by our curtains…
It pecks at us gently with its fingers.
Two years have passed, oh mother,
And the nights of Damascus,
The roses of Damascus,
The houses of Damascus
Live in our reflections.
Its mosques… shine upon our boats,
As if the Umayyad mosque
Had been planted within us.
As if the apple orchards
Fragrant our consciences.
As if light and stones
Had all journeyed with us.
September has arrived, my mother,
And sorrow has come bearing gifts,
Leaving at my window
Its tears and complaints.
September has come… Where is Damascus?
Where are my father and his eyes?
Where is the silk of his gaze?
And the fragrance of his coffee?
May God bless his resting place…
Where is the vastness of our great house?
And where is our blessed life?
Where are the stairs of the sword
That laughed in its corners?
And where is my childhood in it?
I would drag the tail of its cat
And eat from its vine
And pick its violets.
Damascus, oh Damascus…
A poem
Written on the pupils of our eyes.
And a beautiful child…
From its braids we have taken root.
We knelt at its knees…
And melted in its love,
Until in our love we destroyed it.