My Mother!


When I listen to a kerare/ክራር sound,

It carries me away beyond
The universe’s bound.

Leaving the drags of darg behind
If only it could last long around!

I guess I share the same haplotype
No surprise as I came out from her tripe.

My mother was never been music
Nor was she privileged enough
To attain a concert.
She was an ordinary,
She could read,
With one eye closed,
And other one squinted;
But couldn’t write;
As she was church educated.

Such a simple person
If she happened to come across
A flute played
Be it by a Shepard,
Entertaining the herds,
In a wedding ceremony for the guests,
Or by sheer coincidence,
When she happened to walk;
She posed for a moment,
Collected her inner spirits,
To give her energy to sprint.

She just have to look round
To locate a greenfield
Or a mound copious enough with copses,
Then she started to walk;
Even interrupting dinning
In a group.

Someone had to follow
And stop her waking flow.

When asked, for Christ’s sake,
she was about to go,
Leaving concerned in a throe,
She would hurl a retort,
Every time stopped;
“Out of this Word,
Where there is no a tort”.
The irony; my mother’s venture
Was in the boondocks
She could probably walk back;
Mine took me across the desert,
Exposed to rattle snakes,
And more,
Run across mountains and rivers,
The depth of sea water
Turning to escape nature!

Temesgn Khebede

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