Call To Hasten

A call from my my homeland to her kids who live and are developing other lands; their mother land abandoned.

This frumpy mother about to die; and barren.
When her kids like stars spread.
She has sons to many are kings.
And daughters whose queenships do reign.
All moments she tries her face to fuse with a string.
But her tears surpass many suns to drain.
Her bags of hopes had fallen;
Long ago, on a path she couldn't thread.
Her body fresh has rotten.
Her voice low and cold in seizeless, calling
Her kids from all corners, to tread
Through the path; her rotten body to revamp and treat.

Sibblings whose mother, was and behind.
Lets nostalgia perplex your funs.
To glad your mother who awaits
Your returns to behold.