The mother The creation was a divine act and thanks to her for that reason we lived. For that reason, it is difficult to me to explain the Creator does not own a heart, One that must be very special Because it cannot be one normal one Since for me it must have a heart like the one of a mother. Perhaps it sounds insulting But pure and nothing else beautiful That the heart of a mother. Unique the able one to pardon To most Barbarian of its children Without measuring, to count nor to wait for The same that always with love Is preparation stops without receiving to give to give without never justifying and to get tired to give. A mother must have something divine a something that cannot be described feels when in living Single we were Or when with pain we cried Since she is our Identical consolation to which from the sky We received when we asked and when listening to us we felt.

A mother is it all the self-sacrificing delivery the creation represented In this world that When dark it seems to us and sometimes inhospitable Only one mother appears to us encourages to us My Tersi the pretty one Found feelings revolotean my mind, a con others are intensified, all want to be present. Esther, my sister, my better friend, my ally, my student, my thorn, my lost sense of fault, my anchor in the sea, more consequent my fan. What I can say of something or somebody that it complements to you, that has lived your dreams, realities, pains and pleasures. What can be expressed of that when about her you think, is calling to you, when the sadness obstructs to you, without knowing how nor when appears with a something.

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