One of your hairs fell out last night:
A piece of your life was gone without a sound.
I know a difficult day is coming,
My heart, pierced, utters a quiet cry.
Let my childhood smile againin the sun
And turn me into an innocent little headlouse
So I can crawl through the jungle of your hair
And sing a song of darkness in its fragrance.
Under your fingernail-roof Ill sleep in my house;
In my black dream Ill water your black trees.
Ill pick black fruits, and hair-jungle bees
Will bring me black poems to be opened.
How will I live, without your hair?
How will I breathe, without its fragrance?
How will I survive, when I am discovered
By ghosts of wooden combs combing your hair?
Let me wear shows made of dawn-flowers
And crawl without a sound into your sleep.
Ill take the place of the hair thats gone
And sing of hair-clouds flying from night to day.
(by Nguyen Quang Thieu)
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My mother on her sickbed with the lightness
and hollowness of a person
Who has already said goodbye at an airport
In the beautiful and quiet area
Between parting and takeoff.
My mother on her sickbed.
All she had in her life is now
Like empty bottles in front of the door
That will show once more with colored labels
What filled them with joy and sadness.
Her last words, Take the flowers out of the room,
She said seven days before her death,
Then she closed herself for seven days,
Like the seven days of mourning.
But even her death created in her room
A warm hominess
With her sleeping face and the cup with its teaspoon
And the towel and the book and the glasses,
And her hand on the blanket, the same
hand that felt my forehead, in childhood.
(by Yehuda Amichai)
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My sadness today knows no bounds
As I sit here attempting to scribble verbs and nouns
I cannot laugh; I sigh and frown
I’m helpless
My thoughts are confused; I can’t think clear
Whilst you are far away, yet physically near
I speak – I do not know if you can hear
I’m helpless
I cannot begin to understand
Why are you being taken from this land?
Have you been selected for some eternal plan?
I’m helpless
And now as the end of your life draws near
I do not know what to do, or say – I fear
That each breath you breathe will be the last I hear
I’m helpless
(by Geoff G. Turner)
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