Father! May Allah Reward You in the Hereafter!

Those Winter Sundays

Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueback cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the coldand polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?

Robert Hayden


Whenever I read this poem it moves my emotions. It reminds me of my dad and how I was ungrateful. Whatever I did to him when he was alive, didn't pay back the simplest things he sacrefised for me and his other children. Allah I beg you; forgive my father and reward him a great reward in the hereafter.