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Your mother is a woman but you often forget it You, inventor of dramas and perfect strokes. Having become man, different from a child, You prefer bypass this reality. Your mother is a woman why retell it to you? Your existence is the confirmation this fact, But your behavior seems to make us say That this creature is only pure invention. Your mother is this woman that you once adored And that with the passing of the years becomes hardly recognizable. Here is! She keeps all her beauty again But because of you, she is ashamed of herself. Your wife is this so little honored mother For whom some years ago you sung some romances. But for the time being she can't stand up: Victim of this rough war, of your spear. You will regret some day this woman When you will have made everything to rid of it to you. And you will look for it, pouring some hot tears,: She will be well too far to hear your cry. It will be too late ! ! ! Vote for this poem
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