Thursday, 7 March 2013

Poem by the Dutch writer
Jean Pierre Rawie

Just something

My mother, who spent her last, drawn-out years
in an old people’s home, had as time passed
increasingly less knowledge she held fast
of things that once had been her life to her.

Her husband was forgotten, joy and pain
she’d maybe known because of him were gone,
her children had now vanished every one –
she’d fed and clothed them, but no trace remained.

All disappeared; she too. What’s most our own,
familiar as our body, disappears,
and what we’d give our soul for will, I fear,

become as nothing. Though my hope’s alone
just something might be saved if one knew how
of what seems indispensable right now.

For other Rawie poems, go to here

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