For each person the word “mother” is a special word. This is the first word that we learn to pronounce after birth and pronounce our whole life. The word “mother” is equally warm and affectionate in all the languages of the world. We hear a gentle gentle song of my mother in the cradle; Mom worries about us when we get sick or run home with a bump on the head; We hold our trusty mother’s hand when we go to first grade. Mom’s face lights up with happiness at our first smile and first success, pain and anxiety – with our failures and failures. Maybe it was the one who said that the most penetrating and bright words were invented by mothers, and then overheard by poets.
“Darling, kind, old, tender,” – with such epithets appeals to the most expensive person for him, Yesenin. The poet’s feeling for the mother is the main priesthood, which he carried to the last days and perpetuated in lines full of the most sincere
Are you still alive, my old lady?
I’m alive too. Greetings to you, greetings.
Let it flow over your hut
That evening ineffable light.
In the four Esenin lines, the boundless power of the most sincere feelings experienced by the most precious person on earth. In them, and the filial love, and the time that has passed since the last meeting with his mother, and the distance that separates him from her, and the awe of the poet before the native roof.
In Yesenin’s poetry, the mother is the embodiment of conscience and spiritual purity: “You alone are my help and joy.” She is the embodiment of the parental home, the spring white garden. The mother turns into a symbol of a small Motherland, the corner where the poet can always find support and peace, where he will always be understood and pityed. After all, only the mother can calm heartache, free from anguish and fatigue.
The mother’s love is always disinterested, her anxiety is holy. Leaving my home in a great life, among minor concerns in everyday vanity, we sometimes do not even
feel the invisible presence of my mother next to me. Meanwhile, the mother is constantly worried about us – day and night, on weekdays and holidays. Because among the human feelings there is no more sincere and faithful than the feelings of the mother.
“The heart of the mother is an abyss, in the depths of which there is always forgiveness,” said the great French writer O. Balzac. These words find confirmation in the legend about the mankurt from Ch. Aitmatov’s novel “… And the day lasts for more than a century”. The legend refers to those distant times when steppe tribes in merciless wars exterminated each other. The enemies did not spare the enemies – they either killed them, or turned them into slaves-mankurts – people deprived of memory and unquestioningly carrying out any orders.
A udder of a young camel was pulled on a man’s head. Drying, the udder literally crushed his head. Most people died during such inhuman torture. But those who remained alive, completely lost their memory. They did not remember who they were, where, who their relatives, what they were doing. Therefore, a person turned into a mankurt, for relatives, friends and friends was lost forever.
Hearing the story of the visiting merchants about the young mankurt, met in the lands of the zhuang-juan, Nyman-An lost peace and sleep. The mother’s heart told her that this young man was her son. He left his parents’ house to avenge his deceased father, and disappeared in distant lands. Mother did not see him dead, and therefore could not believe the soldiers who, on their return from the campaign, were told that her son had been seriously wounded and killed.
Mother goes on the road. She is ready to endure everything to see her son. But the meeting between the mother and her son was short. The words that Naiman-Ana told Zholamanu did not touch his soul. Mankurt could not understand what the woman was talking about and what she was trying to achieve from him. Obeying the order of the master, he calmly pulls the bow string and releases an arrow directly into the heart of his mother. But the mother had already found her son and could not lose him again. The arrow turned it into a white bird, which, shouting “your father Donenbai, Donenbai, Donenbai” continued to circle over the head of the mankurt, trying to bring back the memory of his parents’ home.
M. Gorky told about the story about his mother in “Tales of Italy”. A black lonely shadow wanders about the besieged city. This is the shadow of the mother, whose son is led by detachments of enemies who are trying to capture the city. Nobody blames the mother for betraying her son, but she still became a stranger to everyone. A woman can not understand how the boy, to whom she gave so much strength and love, grew so ruthless and cruel. And then she decides to leave the city and go to the enemy camp. It is guided by the idea that only it can save the soul of the son and the life of the townspeople.
A difficult conversation between the mother and her son does not lead to the desired result. The son remains deaf to the mother’s words. And then the woman decides on a desperate act. She calls her son to rest on her breast. Warmed and reassured by motherly warmth, the son falls asleep. At this point, the mother stabs him in the knife, killing himself with the same knife.
We reward our mothers with the highest epithets, calling them kind, proud, courageous, patient. It can be hard for us to find words to convey inexhaustible maternal love. “Everything beautiful in a person – from the rays of the sun and from the milk of the mother – is what sates us with the love of life!” – wrote M. Gorky. And the more regrettable it is to hear that there are still sons and daughters who, in an age of rapid development of communications, do not call their mothers for a long time. And we must do it, we must. In the name of the future good of their own children.