Mother

Mother always beats the sun up

Never has once the sun won

the race in three hundred and sixty five days.

Alarm wakens when the outside is still darkened and unlit

Still silent enough to hear small creatures

Performance through the dry-brick walls.

Mother leaped out of bed, exhausted, from the day

before, but welcomes it with a smile

Out the the door; turfs are still rich

From the rose. No soul nor shadow

is seen, only darkness is present to welcome

her, good-morning with a chilling sneeze.

 Arriving to clock in, Not has 

a minutes gone by, but already Slaving

away in a compacted dripping iron cave to

prepare thousands of sarnies to satisfy

Incoming strangers emptiness later. 

The warmth does not

Rise in couple of hours, the night is

Still young; Galaxies are still visible 

and her day has just begun.