I try to wipe off time
from the glass panes
of the window,
that bore a few streaks
I scratched,
In tears,
because mother scolded me,
for spelling.
I subdued my anger,
with a nail
against her motherhood,
and that was a revolt,
the last revolt against
her authority,
before I left home
for long trousers
and learn carrying thick books.
And that was the last revolt,
against my childhood,
before I shyly hid my
man
inside the growing thickets,
curious hisses,
before I forgot a few past
unnecessarily .
In time,
I really lost a few pasts,
before I forgot the necessity,
of the mother
and her authority in the household,
except the window pane,
where time gradually withers on.
I must try to wipe
off time
from the window panes,
that bore my mother’s rule
over my anger.
(On the 74th Birth Day of my Mother)
