WHEN I WAS A BABY
When morning dawned,
Grandmother took the path
To the village mill shop,
With an empty milk bottle,
To stand in line,
For me, her grandchild, newly opened to the world.
My poor mother,
Withered by salty pickles,
Her breasts dry,
Waited for that bottle,
Sorrowful, tears in her eyes.
All too often, the bottle came back empty.
That year,
Many children were born in my village.