@jade22 23 June 2020

A Poem to my Father

When my spirit awoke to the World of Miracles, I heard a question that came to my mind: "What is home like? Is this the home I want to be? My mother's response: "At home it does The sting is thought to have been withered. " My dad's statement: "At home comes At home the Creator's life ends. " I'm happy when I'm with you All my unanimity; I forget the sores, The heart is a holy desire; So to my delight it is often said God is very near to me. And when I was growing up, it was when I realized That the world is a Home of the Occupiers, At home the mind is corrected, At home, mind-boggling, And my dear father was the stronghold, Which in our weakness giveth a blessing, So the plan was when God created it, The first human being was a beautiful father. Home, the fifty is a little cramped Spurred on by the hour of fate, It is absorbed by the south, absorbed by the breeze, Waves are wrapped up in the midst of evil; But while the pilot was weighing down, The heart of misfortune will come from beyond, Is a pilot rooting for the livelihood. In our poor home, even eighteen, Even when it comes to weather and disaster, Those of us who are living in baths also rejoice, Because we are poor and do not seek, We are a little bundle of wreckage, If the binder number is broken and dropped: So, when the father in the field turns away The setting is occupied, organized, polished. If in our pantry the anguish visits, In the arms of my father the sweet tooth goes away; If we drink water and drink, In the sweat of my father's water is my water flowing; If we find ourselves naked and barefoot, Though in trouble they are full of grief; So when the father is fully asleep, The home is dark, the world is mourning.