My Mother, Where Are You?

By Y. Atler
(In Memory of my mother Michala)

Alas, My Mother the beautiful amongst the women
Tell, tell me where you are – tell please:
I searched, I asked every one and every acquaintance,
Until now I’ve not found a thing.

How will I know how to continue searching – how?
How will I know where you are buried?
The holy land where you are buried without name
I would thaw with my muted cries.

I would kiss and caress it always,
I would place my bed on it;
I would embrace her to my heart with warmth
And place fresh flowers day to day.

A white willow I would plant there
And under its shade in sorrow I would dance
Days and nights I would linger there
And the rest of my life I would spend in this place.

 I would at least place a headstone there.
So that the dispersed sons in the world
Would be able, once on a troubled day,
To shed a tear –- a child’s bitter tear.

How to help? How to redeem?
No one says; No one acknowledges.
I will search endlessly, nights and days
Your grave, there you’ve been taken for eternal rest.

Web: 2003 Tilford Bartman