I stand afar,
With tearful eyes,
I think I saw you waving
Up, up the grassy path.
Leading to the hills, you stood,
Perhaps smiling and nodding,
The setting sun on your back,
The heavy luggage hanging,
And all was just black.
Maybe I knew not the pains
That come with leaving home,
The unshed tears of the heart
Of living far from the smiles,
Back pats, plays, and warmth
Of all loved ones and family.

You must go,
You assured us; we knew it,
To bring food and comfort
To our stomachs and hearts.
We shall play under the mango,
Your favorite reading place,
And your advice won’t leave us:
No tree climbing, no hare hunting.
The wilds are strange and cruel.
Accept no gifts from strangers.
Keep your little ones safe.
Don’t play late at night;
The bushes are also cruel.
They would make you lose your way.
Don’t let the little ones stray.
If the rains and wind shake the windows,
Hold them while the little ones sleep.
Don’t complain much, lest they imitate you.
Do not worry; I have these in mind.
Don’t stand too long; move along.

Dried stacks of soil,
Patched up by the sun.
But you till, you sweat
The lands you plow,
Letting the sun whip your back.
You tell the tales of the way,
Of strange lands and people,
The strange, humped animals of the wild,
Blushing as smiles carve out.
And when it is time to go,
You hold the little hands that clutch
Your embrace, fearing not to let go,
With tears falling over you,
All for love, tender and kind,
Living in other people’s land
But staying in our hearts.