Through those Patched Drapes

Walls echo that eerie sound;
Gray pigeons fly all around.
Now, fortuneless ourselves found;
To sorrow shall my family be bound.

No more mother's lullaby;
My sister has lost her butterfly',
Up above a cloudless sky.
I utter a despairing cry.

Broken red bricks line my way;
Rice-less porridge on my tray;
No warmth delight until May;
No happy words can I say.

A mended vest day, day the same,
On my bony frail frame.
Burning beyond - my father's flame,
The day, sorrow our way came.

White flakes burning to ashes;
Wearing dresses of faded sashes;
Frozen tears stain my lashes;
A broken mirror that still smashes.

Was it not only last Spring?
Under the sun we lay whispering.
Of my sister's betrothal promising,
of how our family prospering.

Winter takes summer's cheers,
Sorrow whispered in my ears,
Drowning in my sister's tears,
Choking on my mother's fears.

On my dying tree, hangs an old, torn kite,
As approaches a chilly night,
I ask, "Does tomorrow hold more light?
Or shall it bring more dreaful sight?"

Spring, 1997