The wrinkle under my mother’s eyes

After 6 waning hours of teaching.

 

The creak of the childhood rocking chair

Crying as with another rock forth,

Another day passes.

 

The lowered neck of the deep-rooted Poui tree branch

Sulking for as the time passes, so too will her beautiful flowers.

 

One second here with her,

The next, gone with the moving winds.

 

The grandfather clock swings his hands monotonously,

There, another 24 hours has passed,

So much in the world has changed,

But the heavy bags remain, exhausted but persistent.