Բաժիններ

понедельник, 8 февраля 2016 г.

MY MOTHER'S HANDS
My mother's hands were tapered slim
like candles that might burst in flame.
My mother's voice was like a balm
soothing each pain, calling each name.
Her holy sense of right and wrong.
Forever calm, her fire-filled eyes.
Her thousand tales, her endless songs.
…………………………………………
The sweetest fountain has run dry.

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