Staring at the River he wondered
how his unseen mother would look:
thin as in summer? or fat as in spring?
fair as in sunlight? or dark as in dusk?
Staring at the river she simpered
how her other five sons now look:
strong as it's current, pure as it's ale
rich as it's treasure, proud as it's wave.
For him, she always burned
in innumerable, volatile forms
on every cell of his brain
like an inextinguishable flame.
For her, he always remained
at the bottom of an overwritten
and ignored cell as a slice
of a silhouette’s shadow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem