We call you mama, but never acknowledge your presence
We call you mama, but allow others to rub on us
We allow the Smiths to take us away from you
For desire of greater prospect.
We neglect, your tender care
Your strap on our back along the stream
Your songs while plucking the palm frond
The moonlight stories around grandpa’s garden.
Now the nostalgia of our sweet home envelope us
We want to run to the stream
Feed us with the freshness of your milk
We are ready to listen to your folktales again.
Let the glow of your brightness radiate around us
That we may accord respect from the Smiths
Please mama, let’s travel back to those days
To roll in the freshness of your aura.