Three mice bore into my mothers bag of rice,
our last one...they shat in it,
little droppings that looked just like rice,
brown rice
we sat on the cold kitchen floor,
same song...hungry...stick thin,
she poured it into her only pot
a clay pot chipped at the top,
cracked at the side
she lit a fire...poured in water
stirred and stirred till all the droppings melted,
it looked so much like tea now,
brown tea
we drank the brown tea,
thanking God each time a little white grain
slipped onto our tongues,
she threw the bag out...her last bag,
with three dead rats in it
they had ate her last rat poison tablets,
that was my last supper...our last supper
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
very nice poem.........keep it up.......