Silent Adieu to a Country Home 

Chill of spring winds snaking through me, 
“It’s not your place any more.” 
As I sit on the bench under the 
Bus stop arch, waiting for a late 

Bus to take me over the hills, 
With three years of my life 
In hand; and today I see a 
Young woman moving in that house 

Beyond the wide rice field. Now, she 
Raises her hand to her forehead as if 
Trying to see somebody more clearly, 
Waiting, expecting… What, then, 

Is the meaning of life on earth 
Without this comforting ritual--a home 
Awaiting the return of those who belong to it? 
Farewell, country home, I will visit you 
                                often in dream!