Tigress from the east

To the tree of my grandma (an elegy)

It has been unscathed, no more ring at the heart of tree
when she prawns the blemished back and pad an untidy me.
While there was a tree beneath a parallel of eighty years
and a five, before an unrest tigress could perk her ears.

Does the cub know the pathway of her crusades, yielded in wrinkles,
Runs long and impale those blocks of four decades amidst too many egos
From an opposite sex? Yet a fine woman as her does not splurge a tear,
Only dews with sweats and vex, watering untidy grand daughters who grow no more fear.

Does the young tigress notice those grey prolongs, guttered in unraveled
waves and blaze across her praised wisdom, which above where other common trees rest in veiled,
Rendering a lighthouse with no return, and lighten up a room for a young fire with grace?
She was that with unconventional beauty as we modern millennials say, intelligent face.

Gave hoards of her wealth in silence, yet the unworthy cub was too young to stop it
Drying up, and missing the light in her house.
Close her eighty years house door with watchful sighs, yet the grown tigress is too late to let it
be revived, and repaint it with her stretching cries.

So the tigress wipe tears to that river runs long, watch it yellowing
And yelling until the rusty time could be enameled back.
Perfect it, when her claws are polished to disturb the universe in a smack,
Forbid it, those lost memories will be awakened when her swivel chair is creaking.


Too much to take now, to my grandma, I write such a delayed poem, in your forever forlorn time,
Too less to promise now, from your tigress, I plant a fierce new tree, in your always everlasting life.