My Mother, My Foundation Poem by Aadil Hingorjo

It was a map deeply marvelous
When I looked inside, I read the unseen
It was my mother's image
She was waving me from faraway
She commended my classics
And criticized my recent poems
She is a faithful critic
Never personal, always natural
Humblest to her history
Penetrates into the portraits
I like it when she easily captures me
Hers are the contours philosophical
Devoted, committed, and all embracing
Angel, Almighty, and the kindest creator
Fragile to the depths, yet enormously firm
She does not recall the bitterest bits
But I do observe those dots
She just intrigues me fully
My mother knows I am her history
Her unwritten poetry reveals thru me
Her unsung songs smile through me
Her silence encircles my intellect
Her intense scream ideologies me
She and I write the unwritable
The unwritable which will remain so forever
Tragedy to her is the tragedy to my soul
I am cracked, colorless, and all cut down
My mother is the only fuel to my foundation.