Saturday, October 11, 2008

Abang (Dedicated to E.T.H.)

I watched
as Mother awaits the return
of her prodigal son

(Abang. Pulang lah)

Her son who stood proud in Her vision
when others condemned such contradiction
in their fictative diction

how could. two colours. mixed. and create. what is he. he is? - .

are skin colours supposed to match
and fit in concrete boxes?
(they themselves tiny replicas of imprisonment)

I watched
as Mother is recreated,
rememorised and
reminisced by her prodigal son

(Abang pulang, lah)

How could he when in each dream
that grew from moments of sleep and awake
He sees Mother sitting quietly, lonely,
with her back painfully arched
betraying her youthful heart?

Her son whom She understood why
had to leave Her
for love knows no suffering
as great as love loss

and didn't he say that without her
his heart is left islanded -
sprawled?

If I could,
I would have told him
that Mother still waits for him
and has forgiven him
to come back to her.

(Abang pulang lah.)