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by Walter William Safar
A whisper… soft, gentle and perfectly close
is spreading through the air in this warm April morning.
My mother’s whisper is so close,
yet so far away.
If I could, I would drop to my knees
and beg for forgiveness, understanding and all the love
that only a mother can give.
But inside me, there is no power to kneel,
no humility to ask for forgiveness,
only the joy of knowing that my dear mother is alive
and still whispering dear memories to her old friend,
the Texas wind,
that is so brotherly gildening each of her tears.
Sometimes death takes matters into its hands,
leaving mothers behing in black,
but I dared to replace death
and leave my poor mother behind in black,
I abandoned her in darkness’ embrace
when she needed me most.
Like a thief, I creeped out and left for the world
to spread my rebellious spirit around the whole world
like a desert ploughman
sowing the hope of a better world.
Oh, Lord, if I could only turn back time,
because now I know that you cannot reap fruit in the desert,
and my paths are covered in sand
in which tears quickly disappear,
just like people’s footsteps.
This might be the reason
why I left no track in life.
I passed all the dark paths of this life
with an inexplicable desire for justice.
When I thought that I reached the end,
I would always find myself at the beginning of the road,
as if it was some magical game of destiny.
Everything inside me burned with the desire
to quit this journey
which looked more and more like the pilgrimage
of a tired dreamer,
rather than a rebel’s search for the holy grail of Justice.
And now I am standing at the beginning of my journey,
below the old oak,
which gave so much respect, loyalty and love
to my old mother
in its long life.
And while the sinewy, bare and knotty hands of the old oak
are softly sinking onto my tired shoulders,
I am standing in its shadow in hesitation,
miserably looking into the distance,
as if I might find my answer there.
Oh, Lord, if I could turn back time,
I know what I would do,
I would lower my head into my dear mother’s lap
and listen to her dear, warm and yearning voice
until the moon drops it turquoise curtain
onto our little dream theater.
But now it is too late,
and you know it, Lord, that it is too late,
because there is no more imagination and desire left in me
to dream of a world
I learned to know so wall.
Only the dignified pride and solitude remain.
I am leaving, once again leaving behing
all that I’ve traveled for so many days and months,
trust, humility, honor, love and childhood,
I am leaving behind my old mother
in the company of wonderful memories
and the old Texas wind,
because she would be so painfully alone with me.
Copyright ©: Walter William Safar
End of the poem
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- By Garpal Stream by Stanley Wilkin
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Some external links:
Duckduckgo.com – the alternative in the US
Quant.com – a search engine from France, and also an alternative, at least for Europe
Yandex – the Russian search engine (it’s probably the best search engine for image searches).
