So young was I when left to live without you
I don't recall the outlines of your face
Or figure, nor the smallest thing about you,
Your eyes, your smiles, your sadness, or your grace.
I seek for signs of you as in a haze,
But cannot tell where I should turn my gaze.
Your earthly image I have never known.
I asked the oldest women if they knew.
I stood beside your grave and asked its stone.
I begged the shrubs and grass to speak of you.
When I was seeking one old woman said
You had a beauty spot beside your lips,
That you reminded her of fresh-baked bread
And, supple as a sapling, swayed your hips.
Another peasant woman told me she
And you had milked the cows twice every day.
The stream said, "She would come at dawn to me
To wash her face before she went her way."
The mighty mountain echoed,
"With a cloud
For days on end she'd hoe my flanks on high."
"Her dress was simple cloth of mine. I'm proud
To grace such forms." I heard the cotton sigh.
"We slashed her legs," thorns cried. "We now regret it.
As she walked thro' the fields those scratches bled."
"She came to me, and I shall not forget it,"
The fountain sang, "her jar perched on her head."
The rain cloud growled,
"She wept and I could feel
That never had I shed so salt a tear."
"She feared the lightning," I heard thunder peal,
"To raging storms she'd bow her head in fear."
In face of sacred laws that ruled man's soul,
Adat and Shariat, you were quite lost
And all your life were at their beck and call,
Blown here and there, like down by breezes tossed.
Before the mullah you were shy. You drew
The shawl across your face and made no sound.
Tho' not by hand, a monument to you
I raised within my heart, by verses crowned.
The sweeping river, like a sword unsheathed;
The flag of flame above the school; this land,
Each ancient, sacred inch—these things bequeathed
To us I love as gifts from your own hand.
As always elder women I'll address
As Mother in the village of your birth.
My verse—your voice—omission shall redress
And ring out loud while I still walk the earth!