“To the dream of women, my land”

I have told our daughter

These days,

You come back home and

Her eyes

That can’t wait

Take you from the door and

Read poems for you;

I had said, is she a poet?

Your daughter is a poet

And the poems that all these years

In familiar times

And in unexpected times

I whispered to you

I still whisper to her.

Your daughter is beautiful, a dream

She has inherited your genes, she is beautiful like you

She likes to read genetics but

She shouldn’t sigh, dream

Your daughter is crying

It’s the same every year

I said you come back

At night, you weave the story of her long hair.

When I look at her

I remember you, I cry

Maybe she misses you

She asks me: who is my mother!

How is my mother!

What does she look like!

Which picture is my mother!

Mother! Mother is a minority

Mother!

We are