she carves out
a chunk of wood
then puts the
letters of advice
you be good my son
she takes mud
molds a shape and
writes a mark
life is precious
the son has no time
for all these advices
seemingly what is
obvious is not heeded
less the enigma of
something mysterious
one morning she
takes a cup
the one her mother
left before she
died. An heirloom
which she drops
on the floor and
it was broken
beyond mending
and she said nothing
wrote nothing
and convinced
no one.
guess who learned?
guess who listened?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem