and became sky; you were an ordinary creature — and there came to be, in your human nature, a wondrous measure of divinity! Springs burst forth in your heart that until then had been sealed, unknown ... You were a garden of blossoms, and the blossom became fruit, and blossom sprang up around the fruit, and the birds sang, and the stars sang in your gardens, and the fingers of the prophets pointed to you!

Yes. Graces and blessings flooded over you on the day you bore me in pangs and pains and torment. Do you not remember how my father fired off the glad tidings from a rifle that he kept loading with fire? Do you not remember how the village answered the echo of the shots from every side — not because I had come into the world, for the world takes no glory in a child and takes no child in earnest, but because you had become a mother. Because you gave your life its meaning — and you are not, yourself, your own true, eternal, undying, great meaning.

In my imagination I see your eyes flashing; in them is a silvery trace of tears you were shedding a few moments ago, like drops of blood. They have turned into drops of light; they glitter like fireflies. And this pale face of yours ... it has beamed and shone, as though a thousand dawns and suns had risen in it! You have no past left. Your past was blotted out in my first cry, when I set to wailing like one gone mad. And your happiness at my madness was greater than any happiness, greater than any gift, greater than any treasure! ...

God, how great you are, mother! How mighty your power, how deep your roots, how lofty your virtues and your merit! I say again that you are the heart of life — nay, that life is gathered whole into a single fold

of your bosom. You carried me and launched me into the light, and you set out after me, and you follow still. Still, from the world of the unseen, you watch over my steps, and inspire my heart, and shine in whatever of me spreads out among people, whether poetry or creed!

What thing, from the moment I came into your hands, have you not lavished upon me? You denied yourself everything for the sake of motherhood, for my sake, for the sake of this great and noble meaning of your existence! In every stage of your life you were preparing to receive me. I was your toy when you were a child, your tenderness when you were a young girl, your love when you were a maiden, your dreams when you were a wife. I am the axis on which you have turned ever since existence began to whisper in your ears words you heeded! ...

But I — I, your son — what have I done for you? You died, and I shed not a tear over you, for I did not understand the meaning of tears; indeed I did not under-stand your meaning. And I grew, and came to grasp my mission in life — but did I set your picture in my house? Did I teach your name to my children? Did I raise you a tomb and a statue? Did I visit the corner overlooking the sea where your bones lie at rest?

What have people done for you? Your brothers? Your hus-band? Your parents? None of us has done anything ... And with all this, and above all this, people, O mother — O every mother on every land — want you to remain a captive, to be a pleasure, to stay a plaything, to be bound with fetters and laws and veils, and to be a machine with no life in it, no faith, no ideal!

I bow before you, mother, in reverence. I have finished my communion. I glimpse the tears welling generously in the corners

of your eyes. You have rejoiced, and augured well of me. Your children have begun to know your merit and to feel your kindness. The future is yours. The future is glory for you, and pride. The nearer humanity draws to its own self, the nearer it draws to you. Let your nature suffice you, always and forever: forgiveness. Your forgiveness is a portion of your tenderness. And your tenderness is a sky, raining down mercy and compassion and humanity!

If I have wronged you, if I have neglected you, if I have not paid you the debt I owe, forgive me, mother — I am of this hard generation. My children, and my children's children, will atone for my sins. And if I have done noth-ing, I have at least grasped — with my sense, with my feeling, with my heart — I have grasped your worth and your greatness. You are the ladder on whose steps I climbed up to ... God.

Songs for the Little Ones

A collection of songs for the little ones, adorned with pictures, together with their music

Composed by

Rose Ghorayeb

A book unique of its kind in the Arabic language. Every family and every school needs it

Await it soon

The publishers: Dar al-Kitab