One day,
Her breath will be the echo of my voice,
That fades in no time.
Her hair will that be of the ash's hue
When all the firewoods are eaten by fire.
Her eyes surrounded by unorganized lines;
The typhoon in her voice
Will be those gentle mist,
Accompanied by the clouds
To block the moon
And isn't going away anytime soon
And yet they say,
Everything in her is special;
Her kind is exceptional.
Just who am I?
Who am I to differ?

#mother
© loucaaedee