With its sharp beak pointedly up,
The hawk glided over the hen-coop.
And lazily hovering up there;
It moved swiftly,
To pluck out the chicks with its claws.
But at the shriek of mother hen,
Waves of thunderbolt hit the thievery hawk,
It flew back;
Gliding up in the sky;
And licking its beak with reminiscing delight;
Of past escapades,
That went successful.
Like mother hen;
You weaved armour of shield around me;
And in times of all seasons;
You made me the bosom of your heart;
And with that;
the scorching sun could not melt my infant hair away;
the lip-cracking savanna air failed to make me a prisoner of Shea-butter oil;
the years of famine could not let the vultures pounce on my innocent flesh;
the torrential rains could not empty my bowels of your milk; and
the windy wind could not turn me into a kite that went up the sky and came no more!
I look back at those unsavoury seasons,
And all I can see is your wings of shield;
That made the beasts;
Ran into self-driven collision;
As they fled the looks of your beautiful but gorging eyeballs;
That made nonsense of wolves;
That plied ferociously;
Along the path to my success.
I stand among men and women of substance.
And joining the chorus of the singers;
We wave our accolades;
To your glory!
And the last verse of our song;
Can be nothing except;
Are yours today;
And the days that stand you ahead.
We chant you rhythms of;
Happy Mothers' Day!
Lives on ever more;
And does so refreshingly!
Someone of your kind is smiling tearfully;
And warming her with a saintly embrace;
I whisper into her ears;
'I love you; mother of many!'