I was only five when I first heard the ghost
getting water from our backyard well.
The steady rhythm of a muted squeak;
drawing up that old bent metal pail.
The haunting sound went on for years;
it awakened me most every night.
I would listen, afraid to close my eyes,
until came the morning light.
When I grew up and moved away,
I left that old well ghost behind.
I started my new life with the plan
of a good night's sleep on my mind.
Mama had many lovely things;
she gave some of them to me.
The best thing was her old iron bed,
which was passed down in our family.
My wedding night, I could not wait
to sleep peacefully in my treasured bed.
But, in the middle of lovemaking I heard
an old familiar sound instead.
My husband wondered why I laughed
so hard, until I finally said:
"That ghost, which tortured me for years,
was the squeaking of Mama's iron bed."
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem