Your pale fingertips manage my temple, and I can't help holding your skirt tightly as I did when I was a child.
Ah, mother, in order to keep you drifting away, although the morning light has cut the dream into smoke, I still dare not open my eyes for a long time
I still cherish that bright red scarf, for fear that washing it will make it lose your unique warmth.
Ah, mother, isn't the running water of the years just as ruthless? I'm afraid my memory will fade, too How can I easily open its screen?
I cried and asked you for a thorn, but now I am wearing a crown of thorns and dare not moan.
Ah, mom, I often look up at your photos sadly. Even if the call can penetrate the loess, how can I disturb your sleep?
I dare not show the gift of love in this way, although I have written many songs for flowers, poems praising maternal love for the sea and poems praising maternal love for Dawn.
Ah, mother, my sweet and deep memory is not a torrent or a waterfall, but an ancient well that can't sing in the shade of flowers and trees.
Extended data:
There are also the following poems about mothers praising their mothers:
Paper boat-for mom.
I never refuse to throw away a piece of paper, but keep it-keep it, fold it into a boat and throw it into the sea.
Some were blown into the window of the ship by the wind, and some were wet by the waves and stuck to the bow.
I still keep folding them up every day, hoping that one of them can only flow where I want it to go.
Mom, if you see a white boat in your dream, don't be surprised that it dreams for no reason.
This is your beloved daughter with tears in her eyes. Wanshui Qian Shan, please bring her love and sorrow home.