Mother:
Children and sorrow come together. First
Are sleepless nights, and cradle watchings — next
Your age is vexed with maiden fantasies,
And your girl's lover costeth you more care
Than ever did your own. It is not well !

I don't know, but they did it. They've done it before and they did it tonight and they'll do it again and when they do it — seems that only children weep.

I hear the little children of the wind
Crying solitary in lonely places.

Young children continue to cry a lot for several years; they cry and cry endlessly; they may bother us often, but they are right and we have to be moved by their crying and accept it as a perfectly fair reaction to what has been done to them; some cry until quite advanced ages, until finding other forms of protest and manifestation of their suffering; even as adults, we continue to cry in a variety of ways.

Amid our hypocritical affairs
and all kinds of matters, platitudinous and prosaic,
the only sacred and sincere tears I have observed
are the tears of unfortunate mothers.
For them to forget their children slain in battle
is as impossible as for a weeping willow
to lift its drooping branches.

They've done it before and they'll do it again and when they do it — seems that only the children weep. Good night.

Those bitter sorrows of childhood! — when sorrow is all new and strange, when hope has not yet got wings to fly beyond the days and weeks, and the space from summer to summer seems measureless.

Weep for me, my eyes! Spill your tears
And mourn for me the vanished kings
Hujr ibn 'Amru's princely sons
Led away to slaughter at eventide;
If only they had died in combat
Not in the lands of Banu Marina!
No water was there to wash their fallen heads,
And their skulls lie spattered with blood
Pecked over by birds
Who tear out first the eyebrows, then the eyes.

These bitter sorrows of childhood! when sorrow is all new and strange, when hope has not yet got wings to fly beyond the days and weeks, and the space from summer to summer seems measureless.

Growing to full manhood now,
With the care-lines on our brow,
We, the youngest of the nations, With no childish lamentations,
Weep, as only strong men weep,
For the noble hearts that sleep, Pillowed where they fought and bled,
The loved and lost, our glorious dead.

Can you weep for Him with intense longing of heart? Men shed a jugful of tears for the sake of their children, for their wives, or for money. But who weeps for God? So long as the child remains engrossed with its toys, the mother looks after her cooking and other household duties. But when the child no longer relishes the toys, it throws them aside and yells for its mother. Then the mother takes the rice-pot down from the hearth, runs in haste, and takes the child in her arms.

Children fall into a world of drugs while their mothers cry bloody tears!

The children are all crying in their pens
and the surf carries their cries away.
They are old men who have seen too much,
their mouths are full of dirty clothes,
the tongues poverty, tears like puss.
The surf pushes their cries back.
Listen.

In your grief, too, I weep, mother of little children, You who will murder your own, In vengeance for the loss of married love