"I watch my daughter place the flowers
Over me; wipe a tear, and smile;
The smile, more effulgent than the flowers,
Lingers on; The smile matters;
The smile that can alter the scent of death.
Not a Sunday she has missed, ever;
Not a Sunday when I haven’t watched her sit
By me, and talk about the love of her life
And smile demurely; I wish she knew
I listened to her; I wish she knew how I
Loved to see her in the lovely yellow frock
And how I wish she hadn’t coloured her locks;
I am alive, now, for I watch her fall asleep into
The bosom of womanhood; I am just
Invisible, to the eyes that still carry tears;
Death is the finality; This I had known and believed;
The decisiveness in it; the conclusiveness;
But in death did I realise the worth of living;
And that none in the world mattered, but
The ones who call me back.”
“My daughter, if you are listening, I shall never be
Too asleep to watch you run your fingers
Over the name of your father;
I see the same moon, the same stars
In the dark of this unruffled night;
And I wish I could tell you the names
Of those who have forgotten how they look;
So varied are their masks; But you must
Stand tall, in the masquerade, and smile;
You need not a disguise, but the wisdom
To identify one; For not all shall cry after
One leaves; I know, I have seen.
You must have ears to listen to one self
For you won’t find a better teacher.
And finally, my dear, you must pour
All of your goodness into your child;
For one day all shall know how rare, and precious,
True tears on a grave really are.”
In the face of suffering she was longanimous. By the river she sat, embracing her agony And waited for the little boat to emerge, like The demure bee from within the beauteous petals. Her impregnable belief to see him, on the boat, Waving at her, made her roots go deep. She waited for the tides to run quiet and calm For just one day; and the skies to shine like her hope; Her young heart aged by the river, counting Ripples from every pebble she threw; but it was A river; ripples seemed to be in their usual rush. Summer changed to winter, winds turned cold; Leaves grew impatient and kissed the moist earth. She grew old waiting, but the boat was still a dream. The curtains were undulating, asking her to get up; And saying that maybe the land was too far; Or maybe the tides were too fast; The truth her eyes bled at the thought of was The boat was never destined for a homecoming; Neither was her wait destined to see an end; Perhaps the boat...
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