Losses

[mamculuna]

So many of us were moved to memory of lost parents and children on Mother's Day--I found this poem late last night:

MOTHER

Shu Tin (trans. Tony Barnstone)

Pale fingers brush my temple
I am a child again,
tightly clutching a corner of your dress.
I hold on to your vanishing figure
afraid to open my eyes
though dawn has
scissored my dream to shreds.

I've carefully stored that bright red muffler,
washing it might take away
the slight scent of you.
Mother,
time is a cruel flow.
Memory could also be faded,
how could I dare open that painted box?

When a needle pricked me, I could cry to you.
Now, I don't even sigh,
wearing a crown of thistles.
I grieve before your picture.
Even if my cry could pierce the yellow earth,
I wouldn't disturb your sleep.

I'm afraid to display these tokens of love,
though I've written many odes
to flowers, to the sea, to daybreak.
A gentle, deep yearning for you,
mother,
not cascading, not a waterfall,
but an ancient well, drowned with bushes and flowers,
singing in silence.

Comments

[rahael.livejournal.com]

I loved this, thank you.