Yeda, My Daughter, At Ho Yin Garden, Macao

Picking a flower, unknowing

of the prohibition signs erected

by the park keepers, she asked me

what makes flowers bloom

and what their colors are for.

I smiled and said nothing.

Smile is camouflage, mask.

Smile is wall, hiding place.

I smiled and said nothing.

Her eyes were an ocean of songs and expectations

and I did not look into them for fear of drowning.

Eyes are a deep oceans of songs and expectations.

I evaded her face:

I did not like her asking me again about flowers,

about birds, dews, butterflies, grasses, clouds.

She should know, like everyone else, like every adult,

I lost everything when I grew old.

Growing is going away from childhood.

I looked to the far.

She should not look into my eyes:

she can’t find in them what she searches for.

There is nothing in them

but the ghost of a lost child that was me.

Papa Osmubal