Autumn Night （To A Mother And Her Son ） Poem by Kong Yin

On an autumn night in this foreign country
the ocean tide rises
lamps misty as moonlight.
Birds return to the nest
and leaves grow quiet.

On an autumn night in this foreign country
travelers rest
doors and windows closed.
Flames leap high in the fireplace
and the cat curls up in sleep.

On an autumn night in this foreign country
you snooze by the window,
and memory returns
to a dark autumn night
many years ago:
A tattered lad
runs a narrow country path
carrying empty bamboo baskets
hurrying home,
while his tearful mother
leans on the windowsill of the hut
holding a dim oil lamp
anxiously searching.

In the boy’s pocket, fifty cents
earned digging coal all day.
He did not spend it for his lunch
saving it
so he could place the coins,
warm from his body,
on his mother’s trembling hand.

And his mother has
one sweet potato in the pot
untasted
to hand to her son,
to watch him devour it
tears in his eyes.