When the winter is still leaving
The afternoons are filled with a subtle sunlight
I sit on the cool bed sheet; the time of the those old winter days
When Ma was about to come home from work
But now as I go back in my memories to the partially curtained rooms
I cannot see Ma or feel her arrival
There is no young girl of twelve sitting on the bed
The home is empty
So silent that one can hear mustard flowers grow in a distant land
A land through which I pass by alone
Without my Ma
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