One on my face and one on my arm,
kisses, not blown but bitten.
Two small bumps, one for each cluster
of tiny white roses I picked for my mother.

I scraped the still green thorns
off the tender branches, but the
mosquitos fulfilled the will of
the bush. A prick is a fair price

to pay, and two drops of blood were
drawn all the same. All good things come
from some sacrifice and suffering is what
makes the reward sweet.

The roses often aren't rosy but
they make her happy anyway;
the life she poured into me makes
even dullest of blooms shine.

And the best things in life take
even more from you. These roses
earn their name and with two kisses
I earned their fragrant gift too.



© Walyullah