A Letter To Mom

A letter to mom Abu Zafar Obaydullah ---A translation “The plant in the orchard, the squash Spirally coiling, burdened as it thrived The green, lavish green plants Are blossoming as the season passes by. And I My backyard are sunburned stories of relishes “Dear son, when will you be home? When will they grant you a leave?” The letter was there, in his pocket His blood soaked shirt. Torn and tainted in shades of red. “Mother, they say They will silence us! Each one of us!” There will be no more A bedtime story in your warmth. None.” “Would you tell me, mother? How could it be so! Just for this one. Just for this, your son will be late. I will bring you the nicest of those, in my handful try And only then, you will find me coming back home. Where I belong. Dear Mother! Please don’t be angry. Only a few more days!” “O my poor little one!” Mother smiles as she reads along. “How can I be angry with you?” The crispy puffed rice, The sweet nutty ones, Knitty , gritty, and much more! His son will return home. The tired son! The squash plants are no longer green. The greenery died down The plants are dying in the depth of silence. “O child! Are you there?” She wanders there with a blurry vision In hazy, dark , dense night falls, out there Where the vultures were playing With the corpses of the departed.