Fatima is my mother.

Oh my God, I’ll die, my mother has a fever these days. Oh my God, I’ll die, my mother is awake until morning. Oh my God, she’s in pain but she’s smiling. She’s thinking a lot about tomorrow. She’s no longer my mother. She’s burning with fever. She doesn’t say anything tonight or every night. She’s no longer my mother. The world is sweet to me. Until the time she wears her hair, my world is my mother. Fatima is my mother. Oh my God, I’ll die, how quickly she’s getting old. Oh my God, I feel like she’s fed up with the world. Even though her legs are swollen, I’m wandering around the house. She’s no longer my mother. She doesn’t say anything about the pain in her arm. She doesn’t say anything about the wound in her side. The world is a relief to my pain. Until the time she wears her hair, my world is my mother. Fatima is my mother. Oh my God, I’ll die, her breath has become vital. Oh my God, I’ll die, when her mention of death hastened. Even though her mother is bent over, there’s hope in her eyes. She’s sad but she doesn’t say anything. She’s dying, but nothing. She doesn’t say she’s a mother anymore
The world is sweet to my taste
Until the wear and tear on my forehead, my world is my mother
Fatima is my mother and