Mother, Please Do Not Call Me Your Child

I left my classes and hurried home,
For I missed my paradise so much.
With longing in my eyes I opened the door,
But found my mother in the cotton fields.

I entered the house and spread the table,
My stomach was empty, I prepared some food.
If I did not return for dinner,
My mother would wait with hardened bread.

I called her once in between,
She could not answer, I could not reach her.
After some time from an unknown number,
My phone began to ring.

I picked up and said hello,
It was my mother, and I was stunned.
While I sat in a cool and quiet room,
My mother was picking cotton in the heat.

Her legs ache, her body is weak,
Her delicate hands are wounded and cracked.
The pains and sorrows that trouble my mother,
Let them come to me, but do not hurt her.

Her hair has turned white, wrinkles mark her face,
Yet even so, she remains my paradise.
While her peers wear fine silk and satin,
My mother’s head is never free from hardship.

My goal is to build a beautiful life for you,
One that suits only you and your comfort.
But if from now on I remain a burden to you,
Mother, please do not call me your child.