Your father

Propped on the sidewalk
With a few coins near her legs
And a child wrapped in the folds
Of her scarf worn to shreds,
She holds out her hand in the cold.
The modest bend of her head
Says she doesn’t want to beg
But she must to feed her son.

Left on her own when he was born,
She cried and cursed her fate.
Where to go? What to do?
She had no other choice – the street –
But he went with her, too,
And now she sees he has grown.
“Let me show you,” he says,
Putting out his hand to play.

At first it makes her laugh
To see him imitate
Her begging in his own way.
She’s not totally hopeless
And can accept who she is
As long as she has him.
But then it hits her: what if
He has to beg for the rest of his life?

“Let’s play peek-a-boo or… ”
She says quickly and afraid,
Trying to make him forget
Playing this one ever again.
He goes along with what she has said,

But one day he starts crying.
She says, “Let me kiss where it hurts,”
Hoping to soothe the pain
But then he kisses her
And asks, “Who hurt us?
Who should I hit?”
And demanding the name.
“Your father.” She lets it slip.
Realizing what she has done,
She keeps quiet
Thinking she can still save her son.

Let her burn

I had hated Hatred
For the sake of Love
But a long time ago
It happened suddenly
I couldn’t bear them

So depressed as I was
In need of a friend
All rejected me
Saying
“Let her burn”

Then only
I realized
That only Hatred
Was loyal to God
Hatred has loved me
His principal enemy!