TO MOTHER
As your autumn passes, I am absent.
I drift on the ocean of helplessness
Wounded by your absence, as a poem
Lacking words. Noble contents, as a tender lotus
Sown in the hardened earth of my existence.
Fortify me by thought, brighten the dusk of despair,
As a spark I will rise from the ash in the garden
Of fulfilment, to bake with you… |