READ OUR STORIES |
READ OUR STORIES |
Lazarus of the Iril Banks
A shawl is a refuge when fabric fails—
Haophee, wrapped at the waist, warm as a mother's palm,
a substitute for the soft fall of a phanek over her lap.
And a hanging cloth, a flag of slight defiance—
Phadi, dangling like a comma of a flag over her flat breasts.
A she-symbol improvised from poverty’s silent wave.
A rag, yes, but a pronoun she could wear.
CHERRY BLOSSOM FESTIVAL (KA TAMASA KI CHERRY)
The paradise of love, in its adorn bliss,
In its decor of grandeur, remains through the day.
These cherry tree flowers have bloomed, charmed and irresistible—
Their distinguishing dress so beautifully displayed.
The cherries adorn themselves in fitting attire,
Along with the gentle autumn breezes,
Which yield to winter's cold embrace.
Rush Hour
There's no cadence
in morning rush hours—
as anger burst like atomic bombs
and words splattered
like spilt tea on a white sheet;
A Mother's Lament: Sorrow's Enduring Embers
What of the child,
so pure and young,
the family's breadwinner,
whose old mother, ever vigilant
listens for his return.
The Maniac Called Drugs
This cruel maniac has crept in our town,
Wreaking havoc from the corners of our street
To the utmost glorious sanatorium of our time;
Young leaves littered our street on borrowed time,
As they sniffed plume of sacrilege powdery mildew.
Who will be vigilant to console the Inconsolable?
As precious soul shimmers in this crazy hallucination—
Our homes have become a mournful dwelling sanctuary.