Small and 4x6 sized, old and tinged brown.
Like tea stains on the back.
Looking at it I see me, deceptive, smiling back.
1988, I'm surprised there weren't tears.
For my mother she had left, it had barely been a year.
No one to throw the ball with, no one to take me to the playground.
She never taught me right from wrong, or talked about religion.
If I could reach inside the picture, I would hug that child aching there,
and say, it was all going to be fine.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem