I have memories of you,
which are not buried along with your casket.
I thought it had been a week only since I've seen your body,
but my calendar reported that it's two months already.
I realised how much I haven't thought of your ill shadow,
and now you're all whom everyone thinks about.
Without alarm,
here we are,
with your presence yet without your breath.
Everybody sang you farewell,
everybody here are the ripped and the worn.
I can feel their pain,especially of your children,
but only shallowly.
I will never feel the fatal amount of cleavage
they shall be torn to
whenever your belongings are seen.
Here,they gave a speech
which aren't honey-dipped enough.
I wish I could embellish their words.
And I held the cup of tea they served,
knowing the warmth is never warmer than your heart.
The bouquets do not filled your region enough.
I say,they say,
you deserve all the flowers in the world.
And I want to remember your face and smile
when you arrive at our house,
after work.
I know you like your tea with milk,
extra sugar I mixed within.
Even when not so savoury,
you never complain anything.
I want to remember you this way,
and all the sweet and motherly ways
of how you gave me nicknames,
being the woman of sweet mind and mouth of a sugarcane.
YOU ARE READING
OLD FILMS IN POETRIES
PoetryIt's a film in poetry─A little lively,a little sad,a little death,a little pleasure,a little desire and wishes,a little rest and a little nurturing.
