MY MOTHER SETS BEHIND THE CLOUDS

My mother feeds the yellow ducklings with gold,

She throws it cheerfully as if she were playing.

She hoes the hyacinths and the lovage flower with love,

She whispers to the violets.

My mother meticulously embroiders

Moving flowers on tablecloths and pillowcases,

Her embroidery smiles.

She covers the radio with decorative cloth

The radio was marked by fluorescent names of radio stations.

For the first time I read that there are Zagreb, Paris,

Milan, London and Bucharest – the latter, I don’t know why, the loudest.

My mother kneads pliable dough.

She can stretch it across the entire street –

Dad is exaggerating.

She hands out soft cakes to toothless old women.

My mother dresses traditionally, ties a scarf on her head,

Wears long skirts …

To be closer to her mother who fell asleep early,

In a dreamless sleep,

To be at her roots, just as she is.

My mother prefers to dress in grace,

Digs a tunnel to the center of forgiveness,

Shapes a gentle word with white kaolin.

My mother plants a garden and waters the greenery

With a stream of kindness so that it flourishes generously.

My mother remains loyal to the end

While she increasingly resembles a statue of sand

Blown away by the Saharan whirlwind.

My mother sets behind the clouds

Bloomed by her love into purple peonies.

I remain silent and stunned for now in this world,

Wondering what colors the clouds will reflect later

When I set.