when the lashings have turned cruel and we slowly bleed
and our solitudes have clothed us with more silences --
we long for the aged, wooden cradle of our seed
and walked the dusty road home beyond our fences.
my mother still dances with my father's funny shoes
though dad's laughter and their music is no longer there.
often, she forgets faces and names get loose
but she taught me baby songs for children everywhere.
three sisters, a brother, and more.. crowding the glass table
once again.. spoons and forks chiming to the wind of our jumble
now we've grown old enough to seek distances and maybe fall apart
but here we are once more like candles in the dark.
love then is going back to where we must have been,
bringing our stained clothes with us... gathering pebbles and dusts
mixing butterfly stories with movies we had seen
no more teardrops on my pillow, finding family at last.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem