Dedicated to my mother
How do I help you understand
A pain you have never endured?
This book of suffering that I hold-
I was forced to read, to devour,
Ever since my earliest remembrance;
Pages worn and weathered with use,
Its words imprinted upon my soul,
Etched in ink that pierced so deep,
That its traces can never be erased;
Sometimes it seems my mind, my heart-
Have been molded against my will
To suit this book’s strange design.
And you who love me so tenderly,
Who long for all life’s joys to be mine,
Yet from your words and your counsel,
I grieve at how little you understand;
Oh how for long years you struggled!
To ease my distress, bind my wounds;
Yet the blood seeped through your fingers,
Till your loving but weary hands finally froze!
And even now, I see I cause you pain,
But the old book is still sealed to your gaze;
And how can I demand that you understand,
A story you have never held in your hands?
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