And as my mother would cry,
'Mama, I can't go back to him'
She would, look up from her lnitting
(How long it has been
since someone called me
by my first name, she mused)
But stopping her in her blindness,
I tugged at her house dress
while she was arranging her yarns.
'Oma', I said
melting into the apron of her
grandmotherly warmth
'Go back with your husband',
she replied to my mother,
'He is a good provider'
'and no matter what, all men cheat'
And I, her young grandson,
seeing her droop and shake her head,
know now, as an adult,
forty years later,
what she knew then, what she meant when
When she mournfully intoned...
'O' but what of the Der Kinda,
Der kinda'?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Solid narrative, John, smacking of vivid imagework and fine detailed language... A nice piece of craftsmanship'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''{F j R}