on a Sunday of a hot summer
i went to the far mountain
where my father used to spend his
youth
i was met by his followers of long ago
and they were telling me
stories as i waited for them to cook
the rice and fry the fish
that i brought for them
then we dined and i listened to their
conflicts about land
their problems about food, and water
their hunger and their thirst
some of their women offered their
ethnic dances with
the younger men
the sounds of gongs reverberated
and echoed on the walls
of the mountains
we drank native wine until the light
of the day faded
until the stars arrived and the moon
reigned and floated in the nearby
silvery river
there were more stories about my father
his love and his wife
my mother and some of my other brothers
and sisters
we became one people
and then we were so tired
we slept and then we had common dreams
i am their new leader now
and they are as always my father's people
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem