Mother's love
Mountain, not as high as maternal love;
Sea, not as deep as maternal love;
God, love without a mother is vast;
Nature has no mother's love and tolerance.
Sunshine is not as warm as maternal love;
Clouds are not as white as maternal love;
Flowers are not as brilliant as maternal love.
Poetry about maternal love
Mother is like a lamp in the dark,
When I got lost,
She will guide me and light me up,
Towards the light,
Mom,
Mother is like the bright moon in autumn night,
When I'm lonely and helpless,
She will accompany me and support me,
Give me confidence.
Mom,
She's been busy for me,
Take great pains,
No regrets,
So, on this annual Mother's Day,
I have to say,
Mom, thank you! I love you!
mother
Who will dress us when we are cold?
Who will cook for us when we are hungry?
Who encouraged us when we failed?
Happy for us when we succeed?
She is not a robot; Not a computer,
She is my mother.
Mom is not Santa Maria,
Not Jesus,
Not god,
But she is as gentle and kind as Santa Maya.
Full of love like Jesus,
As smart as God.
Ah! Mom, that's great!
love
Maybe the years have taken away your grace,
Your pale hair,
But it will never take away your kind smile?
Mom, on this special day,
Please let me express my sincere thanks!
Happy mother's day.
My dear mother,
I can't say enough,
I can't finish what I want to write,
Everything,
Everything is in silence.
I fell in love with my mother's face from the day I was born.
one
I stared at the sunset on the slope.
In the twilight, hippos carry the moon.
A new star
It is full of my sadness.
My thoughts are in ink.
Swim loudly
My pen spent the summer on manuscript paper.
Missing is all over my forehead.
Turn the muddy night around
Mother's messy hair
In the drizzle
In the river in my hometown.
I think of my mother's beauty and gentleness.
I think of my mother's smile.
Acacia climbed up my cheek.
I am everyone in the moonlight.
A cheerful river
My dream is on the riverbed of my hometown.
Stay in the hot land together
Mother is in the eyes of rice and wheat
Full of traces of time.
I stare at the years, it is like a sickle.
Waiting for the autumn harvest
I am swaying in the sweet fruit.
My autumn
It belongs to the season of poetry.