Monday, February 09, 2004
The blind old woman
Sitting on her chair
Slowly clearing the small table
Slowly uncoiling her hair.
The night is old
And the wind is blowing gently
The candle flickers once and twice
And the worn white curtains flap slowly.
She is preparing a humble dinner
For her young soldier son
Thinking about him makes her smile
For relatives she had none.
There's a fight going on
She understands only vaguely
Not entirely sure of what he meant
But he says he'll be busy lately.
The kettle is almost ready
The woman smiles alone
For her son had promised that
Just for tonight, he'll come home.
There's a knock on the door
And the candle suddenly dies
And the woman got up to greet her son
Happy tears welling in her eyes.
Her son is there, she knew
And she hugged and kissed his chin
Laughing, she went to fetch the tea
And asks him to come in.
At the door her son smiles
But didn't say a thing
He didn't move but just
Watches his mother reach for the tin.
Suddenly like a phantom he disappeared
And a breeze blew through the door
Bringing a few dried leaves
And a letter across the floor.
The piece of paper that blew in
Will explain that fateful night
That her son was dying far away
After losing the bloody fight.
Maybe the woman will never know that night
Her beloved son in the uniform
That at the moment the candle died
Her son has also gone.
This is one of the silent tales
But there are many many more
Of the quiet stories that tell
The endless sorrows of war.
man.. this is POWER!
not by me(i wished!) by luciole in
deviantart.com wow. started to
have interest in poemssssss...~
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