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To bear the raging storms of thousand beats, (Sonnet)
To bear the raging storms of thousand beats,
With drops too light for thy too mighty core,
Astounds the lot, a few despise, though sheets
Of poems or not be of less, never more.
Absurd this is, the one thou call, "all out"
For fools and fooled and smoked or blinded eyes,
With dreams no more or dreams not one, that cloud
The truth of which maternity relies.
To say, "I'm one of them un-dreamers," is
Thy shifty cynic's own reality,
Though often lets the dreams devour and kiss
The one who gave my own infinity.
So, 'tis the grant to all thy heavenly
For proof, existence to love, boundlessly.
What lies behind the words
The fact that you (mother) endure hardships in a manner that seems like you're not experiencing them at all leaves many in awe, and a few doubtful or plain jealous. However, no amount of writing may be enough to tell your tale of bravery and tenacity.
Unconditional love simply does not exist to fools, deceived ones, and those who have already been blinded by this cruel land. Regardless of whether they did believe in it once, or not at all, deviates their mind from the existence of a mother's love.
I do believe that I am one of those nonbelievers, although I often let my "believing side" open so that I may give thanks to the woman who gave me life.
Let this (sonnet) be your "pass" to all your happiness for proving the existence of love I do not perceive: boundless.