An early spring morning,

Full of fresh mourning,

The flowers in droves,

The bees in the groves,

The girl sobbing softly,

The man crying too,

A beautiful field,

With no shield

From the truth.

They lost her last night,

Gone was the bright,

Presence of Mother,

A woman like no other,

She left them her cat,

And all that she had,

But poor mother was ill,

And had little, but still,

She brightened their lives.

The field was quiet,

The bees had turned silent,

In respect for the two,

That had something to lose,

Someone they lost,

Their only support,

Except for each other,

For they lost their Mother,

The flowers felt teardrops.