everyday the fathers escort their kids to school in this place where i live
fronting my house where the kindergarten school is built
the fathers talk a lot while waiting and i am listening as the distance is
just near the window where i sit and observe where i keep on writing a lot of
stories and whatever is coming inside my brain...
the talk travels on their orbits in circular fashion without a specific direction
just passing the hours consuming every minute while waiting
then the bell rings and the kids go out from their rooms rushing to the arms of
their fathers who pick them up and put them on their seats on the motorcycle
it is 12 noon
the motorcycles one by one leaves the place and proceeds to their houses
this happens every day except during Saturdays and Sundays where the place
is so silent and empty except for the rustle of some leaves that fall from
the mahogany trees on windy days
which is not always
i am faithful to this scenery.
i am the spectator watching the fullness and emptiness of some days
figuring out
relevance.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem