The appointed lot has come upon me, mother,
The mournful ending of my years of strife,
This changing world I leave, and to another
In blood and terror goes my spirit's life.
But thou, grief-smitten, cease thy mortal weeping
And let thy soul her wonted peace regain;
I fall for right, and thoughts of thee are sweeping
Across my lyre to wake its dying strains.
A strain of joy and gladness, free, unfailing
All glorious and holy, pure, divine,
And innocent, unconscious as the wailing
I uttered on my birth; and I resign
Even now, my life, even now descending slowly,
Faith's mantle folds me to my slumbers holy.
Mother, farewell! God keep thee — and forever!
Notes
This sonnet was written just before the poet's execution for his alleged part in a preempted uprising to free Cuba's slaves. It is addressed to the white mother who abandoned him in an orphanage as a baby and whom he never saw again.
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Comments
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I'm picturing his mother reading this haunting poem. The pain. The anguish. Line 14 is so moving--"faith's mantle folds me to my slumbers holy."
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Nice poem.
Tribute to a mother.
Plain. Simple.
Ankita
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