Title: "Mom... When the soul writes on paper"

Mother is not a word to be said,
Rather, a small universe dwells in the heart of everyone who has passed through the face of life.
It's the first pulse when everything falls silent.
And the hand that does not age in the memory of pain.

When we get tired,
We are not looking for a homeland... It's about "mom."
When we rejoice, we run towards her as if joy is only complete in her eyes.

A mother is not only tenderness,
It is the memory of good things,
And the smell of bread when life was hot,
And the sound of supplication on the threshold of dawn... Without us hearing.

Mom doesn't write,
But she is the author of a thousand texts in my life,
Every step of mine starts with a sentence she said in a low voice...
"May God protect you."

I swear that when I write,
Its shadow passes between the lines,
I was raised on my worries,
She says:
"Write, my son... But don't doubt me, I pray for you silently."

There is no equivalent to a single moment of silence in the world,
It has serenity, and it has a language that no one understands...
Except for those who lost it.

---

Oh Mom...
You are my poem that is not written,
Because whenever I try,
Cried.

---

Would you like me to write this article for you in a blog format or as a Facebook or Instagram post?

With pleasure. Here's a poetic literary essay about the mother, written in a unique style and never published before:

---

Title: "Mom... When the soul writes on paper"

Mother is not a word to be said,
Rather, a small universe dwells in the heart of everyone who has passed through the face of life.
It's the first pulse when everything falls silent.
And the hand that does not age in the memory of pain.

When we get tired,
We are not looking for a homeland... It's about "mom."
When we rejoice, we run towards her as if joy is only complete in her eyes.

A mother is not only tenderness,
It is the memory of good things,
And the smell of bread when life was hot,
And the sound of supplication on the threshold of dawn... Without us hearing.

Mom doesn't write,
But she is the author of a thousand texts in my life,
Every step of mine starts with a sentence she said in a low voice...
"May God protect you."

I swear that when I write,
Its shadow passes between the lines,
I was raised on my worries,
She says:
"Write, my son... But don't doubt me, I pray for you silently."

There is no equivalent to a single moment of silence in the world,
It has serenity, and it has a language that no one understands...
Except for those who lost it.

---

Oh Mom...
You are my poem that is not written,
Because whenever I try,
Cried.