You’re their mother

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Father though I’m, who set their bread,
Their mother you’re; you care them all.

When night and day harder you work
While giving that love, I used to own,
To the children of mine, love fills in my heart
Greater than the day I met you first
And gets me closer and closer to your heart.

When you sit beside and kiss my head,
Fragrance of yours that’s often smelt
On my infant son’s face, makes me a devotee
Of the temple of yours, and then I feel
Not you as my lover, but a great, great mother.

Translation to Maestro Amaradeva’s ‘Though I’m their father’  (I published this , first, on November 11, 2016. I thought of publishing it again with new edits.)

Copyright © August 6, 2019, Newton Ranaweera
Image Source: Pixabay

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Paramitha

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He tuned his plate of violin
to charm the handful of rice
remaining in the pot,
eagerly waiting to be served
to the first come.

Rice he had already had,
mixed with salt,
had had an unwelcome
greeting
when it reached
its rival, his belly so thin.

When the last portion of rice
left the cracked pot
to embrace his plate of violin,
tuned with his skilled fingers,
mother left the kitchen
with a sense of glory
that her paramita was done.

Image source: Pixabay

Thou art their mother

This poem is a translation to late Sri Lankan iconic singer Pandit W. D. Amaradeva’s song, ‘Thaatthaa unath maa’ – though I’ m  (their) father.

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Though I’m their father that sets their bread,
thou art their mother that careth them all.

When night and day harder thou workst,
while giving that love, that I used to own,
to the children of mine, love fills my heart
greater than the day I met thee first,
and gets me closer and closer to thy heart.

When sitst thee beside and kiss’t my head,
fragrance of thine, that’s oft smelt
on the face of my son, maketh me devoted
to the temple of thine, and then I feel
not thee as my lover, but a great, great mother.

Photo: Pixabay

Mother, the Fountain of Love

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Mother, the fountain of love,

I’m the dear son of yours.

On the future day of your Buddhahood,

I would follow you seeking your refuge,

holding your fingers as Rahua, once, did.

You washed my mouth with milky water

that you’d dissolved the moon with.

You fondled and lulled me into a sleep

with the divine manthra of your lullabies;

my life you created out of your own,

and you nursed me, dear mother of mine.

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Keeping me in the comfort of your lap

and reshaping my hands and legs,

you had me sleep on a bed of roses.

In my dreams, I smell your divine milk;

my life you created out of your own

and you nursed me, dear mother of mine.

 

(January 5, 2015: my own translation to Victor Rathnayaka’s song, “A:daraye: ulpatha wu: amma”. Though I tried my best to translate it as close as possible to the original version, my translation went astray at several places proving the common idea that poetry is untranslatable. Therefore, this translation needs further editing.)