A poem for my mother in Romanian and English 


 




This is not a poem

It's the rusty rail of the train

It’s the neighbour on the next bench

It’s a mother who walks her child in the park

It’s your heartbeat that

you can't hide it, whatever you do.

 

you are not a poem, mother

you are a sad wharf, you see

I'm waiting for you with my hands in the rain

with the clock’s hands stuck in the heart and you

you come after centuries and show me how to

make a pot of soup, to knit a dumpling

I've been waiting for years, mom, and when you came

you said while sewing a coat for me

I've been raising you with a needle all my life

now I am writing this poem which isn’t more important

than the soup you cook

 



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