My mother,
She used to sit on the left of the bridge,
Sitted with her legs loose and bent,
Seeing through every eye that crossed,
Just so a coin would drop in her tin.
My mother,
Tired and hungry,
Collected and waited,
Begged and pleaded,
Just so we had bits to eat.
My mother,
She accepted all the words,
She breathed in all the dust,
She crawled in all that mud,
She was rained on for me to live.
My mother,
Sheltered me from cold,
Covered me in both tattered and old,
She didn’t carry that she couldn’t hold,
A story that often remained untold.
My mother,
Shared those she collected from the thrown,
She didn’t bother whether they were rotten or torn,
She only lifted her eyes and hummed,
And those hummings have opened ways I match through today.
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