God envied people He created; they had mothers.
The Creator rushed down from Heaven devoid of Mother
to the Created on the Earth full of mothers.
God found a shy little girl called Mary
In a remote hamlet, a humongous cage.
Would you be my mother, red canary?
God danced when she sang YES onstage.
God flung the door open and Mary fluttered out of the cage.
He shouted like a thunder; now I have my own mother!
God was becoming a human inside a tender body.
God was becoming a boy with sweet milk of a woman.
He became a man under the tiny wings of a feeble lady.
He became a son of the most elegant human.
God whispered; I love you, Mother!
Poor Mary returned back God’s gargantuan love lavishly!
She made God smile by keep everything deep in her nous.
She made God not to abandon hope for humans easily
by crouching down at the foot of the Cross.
God who created mothers came to know;
mother’s bosom as vast as Heaven,
mother’s love deeper than the deepest well,
mother’s sacrifice beautiful only to the eyes of God,
mother’s suffering allowed only to mothers.
God wanted to magnify mother’s love dearly
by wiping Eve’s stain off Mary’s feathers
by re-creating Mary’s body lest it would rot vainly
by crowning her as Queen of Heaven and Earth
with a wreath highlighted by plenty of white roses.
Now I envy God;
He has the most beautiful Mother!
Yet God glorified us; here is your mother,
He pleased his Mother; here are your children,
while dying on the Cross; so concrete.
That’s God’s love; so complete.
Holy Mary, Mother of the Absolute.
How dare can we call you our mother?
Your son was nailed on the Cross by the resolute.
How can your son be our brother?
Now we have the most wonderful Mother.
She gives us her little love that raised God,
She feeds us her plentiful milk that fed God,
She leads us with her endurance that sustained God.
Mary has shrunken to become my little mother.
Mother of the Almighty has become plain mother of mine.
She willingly has become the mother of this miserable debtor.
She is having a happy life in Heaven with God in shine,
but she flies down to this world to raise us, to raise me.
Mother of God’s; Mother of ours; Mother of mine
Mother, Mother, Mother….
What’s going on, my son? Mary is your mother?!
Mom, she’s your mother too…
Nothing would matter, wouldn’t it, mom?
I crown the mother of my ducklings
as Queen of my Family
with a wreath adorned with wild flowers
and twigs delivered by cardinals.