Mother
The wind that blew through the mountain
I turned and came back.
The place is beautiful.
Happiness comes to the children.
The kids came to my mother's house.
It's not white, it's not shaking.
My mother was in the front row, her face pale and discolored.
We are in the backyard, with no separation between the stomach and the wind.
My mother said, "My son can swim."
Even in the old shell of life, I am young.
I know that a mother's smile is medicine.
I woke up late.
Even the train of life that is always late
On time and early
They came to my mother's house.
We have no right to prevent it.
The right to cry, the right to mourn, the right to remember
Celebrated as tears.
We ourselves too
It decays like decaying wood.
I'm writing this because I'm broke at any moment.
The color of the shadow is not enough to write.
It's not over yet. It's not over yet.
There will be staring and staring, and there will be thinking and thinking.
Longing doesn't end with a short tail.
Like a corpse with an old chest
Love is everywhere, every signpost.
It wasn't the bus that arrived.
A waterfall flowing with human blood and white blood cells.
Today's temperature in Aceh, Thailand
Children
I threw it while playing.
Corn kernels are in the air.
They become poppies and flowers.
Mahathi Magazine, July, 2018
