The old birds lie in their nests,
Curled up like question marks.
The sky today is mourning for my mother,
And the ground is tired of collecting its tears
In her bellybutton and crevices
Which emerge from its edges;
Waiting for disaster and sorrow,
To make them whole again.
The mountains are beating their chests,
And earthquakes shiver with their horror.
My mother has turned into the darkest shade of death,
Her ears have forgotten what they are meant to do;
And her eyes refuse to open.
Even the undone dishes and
Mismatched socks are unable to wake her up.
As I wash the dishes she left behind,
I observe that they make more noises today;
The water falls fiercely over them,
Screaming on the top of its voice
As if mourning for the hands which
Tickled them every day.
My house smells of death,
Instead of alcohol and an old woman's tears;
Today it doesn't watch an alcoholic father
Beating an old woman like a madman
While her child hides behind the curtains,
Pretending to blend in the background.
The walls shrink with each passing second,
Just like my heart;
Even the cemented walls are failing,
To carry the smell of burning bones on their nostrils.