作者：钟世秋
母亲啊，
当我们降临人间，
投奔您的怀抱，
身形是那般渺小，
赤身裸体，双手空空，
唯有张开双手，向您索取。
而您倾尽所有——
蓝色的河流，赤红的泥土，
银鳞跃动、丰盈无垠的海洋，
还有低吟古老歌谣的原始森林。
您毫无保留地给予，
毫不犹豫地奉献，
赐予我们
一个完美无瑕的家园。
可我们做了什么？
我们剖开您的山峦，攫取大理石，
我们撕裂您的骨骼，掠夺金属矿藏，
我们抽干您海洋中生命的欢歌，
我们砍尽您的森林，
将亲人视为仇敌。
我们污染您澄澈的天空，
在庇护我们的云幕上撕出裂痕，
我们折磨您的生灵，
在本应开满鲜花的土地上，
播下战争的种子
留下累累坟冢。
然而，您仍在哺育我们，
依旧未曾放弃。
在我们干渴之地洒下甘霖，
让我们焚毁之处绽放花朵。
您在风浪中低语：
“还有时间，孩子，请重新选择。”
可如今，
您如被遗弃的母亲，
在沉默与灰烬中
垂泪。
或许不久的将来，
您的爱将不再温柔，
而会化作——
烈火，
洪水，
瘟疫与高热。
这，
不是为惩罚，
而是为重建平衡——
收回那些从未属于我们的馈赠。
多么遗憾啊，
我们这些本可在歌声与阳光中生长的孩子，
也许，
终将走向毁灭，
不是因未得警告，，
而是因为我们早已忘却——
如何去爱，
去爱那最先爱我们的您。
那么，
就让我们献上一息微光般的希望：
在喧嚣之下，
仍有人记得。
我们播种、哭泣、低声致谢；
温柔地捧起蜜蜂，
在树苗旁虔诚跪下，
护送乌龟穿越车流。
我们教导孩子记住您的名字，
不将您视作资源，
而是，
作为“母亲”。
也许，仅仅的也许，
只要有足够多的人回头，
以敬畏之心触摸大地，
选择慈悲而非贪欲——
您将再次展开那温暖的双臂。
母亲
不是为了遗忘，
而是为了——
宽恕。
To Our Mother, on Mother’s Day
We came to you small,
naked and open-palmed,
and you gave us everything—
blue rivers, red clay,
oceans thick with silver life,
trees humming ancient lullabies.
You gave without condition,
without hesitation—
a flawless home.
And what did we do?
We carved your mountains for their marble,
ripped metal from your bones,
drained your oceans of their singing,
felled your forests like enemies,
not kin.
We polluted your sky,
tore holes in your sheltering veil,
tortured your animals,
warred with one another—
on land meant for gardens,
not graves.
Still, you fed us.
Still, you tried.
You rained where we were thirsty.
You bloomed where we burned.
You whispered in wind and wave:
here is still time. Choose again.
But like any mother abandoned,
you now grieve
in silence and ash.
And one day—maybe soon—
your love may come wrapped
in fire,
in flood,
in fever.
Not to punish,
but to return balance.
To reclaim what was never ours to own.
And oh, what a pity—
that we, your children,
who could have lived in song and sunlight,
may vanish
not from lack of warning,
but from forgetting how to love
what loved us first.
Then let us offer her this—one final breath of hope:
But still—
beneath the noise,
some of us remember.
We plant, we weep, we whisper thanks.
We hold the bees gently,
kneel beside saplings,
carry turtles across roads.
We teach our children her name
not as a resource,
but as mother.
And maybe, just maybe,
if enough of us turn back,
touch the soil with reverence,
and choose mercy over profit—
she will open her arms once more.
Not to forget—
but to forgive.
