Like a tiny bud in a garden of roses
Of tender, multi-colored hues,
I live happily at home
Under the care of my mother
Together with my other siblings
And my dear father.
Since, for me, she is above every other thing,
I wish to speak of my mother.
Because she is noble and selfless, of a very sincere heart,
I’d like to paint with words her beautiful portrait
Because I admire and honor her;
She is my rose garden.
From her,
The one who gave me life,
Who nurtured my body with the sap of her being;
Who offers her affection with purity and candor,
Who has given me the joy of knowledge,
Who gives me advice full of prudence and understanding,
Coming as words of praise, admonishment and warning.
I have learned, as subtly, the importance of the heart,
The dangers of sin, and
The nobility of love.
About her,
The one who has molded my conscience,
Teaching me how to love
And to distinguish the sentiments of my soul:
grief and joy, sorrow and pain,
I will say humble things, things
Natural and simple, yet beautiful;
Her heart seeks only to shelter,
Like a flower jealously guards its fragrance,
The sublime feelings of fondness, tenderness and love.
Her whole being is energy overflowing,
Insisting proudly on showing me
With flattering glimpses of her past experience,
Reciting tirelessly , every night, every day as an exquisite refrain,
What is good, what is bad, what I can win and what I can lose;
How hard life can be, and how I must take care of that hidden
treasure: my spiritual innocence.
She never tires of telling me, with grace and joy,
To hold fast to my hopes and dreams,
That I must be strong, constant and modest,
Never rushing love.
I must be wise, understanding, willing and obedient,
Sincere, determined and delicate,
And tender like a flower.
I must hold high purity and honor.
I must be optimistic and learned, cautious in speech, prudent in love.
I must be honorable and thoughtful in my conduct,
And above all the rest, always willing to forgive.
This is my mother …
An example of love and kindness,
Sometimes profligate with her tenderness,
At other times harsh enough to call forth tears.
These things are important to me not for their joy or pain,
But because they have made me think
That she believes I am still a child,
A little girl in diapers;
Unaware that her little bud
is in full bloom on the rosebush.