Tonight, we decided to write a letter for you, mother.
Perhaps we may hear the rain
dripping on your worn-out clogs.
Perhaps we may see your smile
hanging from your chin over our thirst.
They feed us rotten potatoes: don’t worry.
They curse us and hit us: please love us.
Perhaps we may never return—but you still light
the lamp, mother; others will return.
Now you gather the white cloths of exile from
the clothesline.
You stitch the patch of your concern on our socks.
You know, mother, we never used the gloves
you knitted for us
we gave them to a comrade who was taken away
to be court-martialled;
we also gave him a can of food and a piece of
our palm.
He tied the edge of his sack with a string
he tossed the sack on his shoulder
and we saw him climb the hill
with his thin legs scissoring the opposite
sky into pieces.
Each morning, they take a count of us.
Each evening, we count the leftover plates
the leftover grief in our eyes

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