Just on the cusp of dream,
My father entered my bedroom
He was carrying Sunday breakfast on a tray
For me, his spoilt grown daughter
The eggs could have been drawn on the plate
By an artist as skilled as Velasquez
Fresh eggs, crisp toast, milk coffee, briskly stirred
Like gifts given up to an idol
A cracked clay idol, unworthy of such attention
I was always a free range bird
Refusing the pen’s safety
The heartache I must have caused him,
The constant worry.
Men say pure love is often tinged with sorrow
A way-ward child is often the dearest loved
Albatross bird in the nest, so needy, raucous
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem