Bài số 64 64

64

I CANNOT remember my mother,
only sometime in the midst of my play
a tune seems to hover over my playthings,
the tune of some song that she used to hum while rocking my cradle.
I cannot remember my mother,
but when in the early autumn morning
the smell of the shiuli flowers floats in the air,
the scent of the morning service in the temple comes to me as the
scent of my mother.
I cannot remember my mother,
only when from my bedroom window I send my eyes into the blue of
the distant sky,
I feel that the stillness of my mother’s gaze on my face
has spread all over the sky.