My motherland

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.

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