The Crowned Father
Was the nation’s Dad.
He lived somewhere far.
Perhaps, a city:
A huge city:
A lovely place
With clean people.
All his surroundings;
Despite brightness,
Was misty for me
And kids of my age.
He lived out of reach.
We were never told,
Perhaps, out of fear
Or, precaution,
He had been crowned
Like his own father
By some remote hands.
He knew nothing
Of my words and tongue
And nevertheless,
Stood for father.
Each bright morning,
In chill of winter
And gloomy falls
In worn out cloths,
Semi-hungry,
With our little mouths;
Stretched-out hands;
In front of god;
And colored flag,
With a pure heart;
By the force of fear
By different accent
We prayed for him.
Dad’s Literacy Corps
Was established,
With other reforms
To teach us reading,
To civilize us;
All in appearance,
Like the good subjects
Of his good friends’.
When poplar twigs
Broke in pieces
During beating
Soles of classmates
Before our bare eyes,
And the pounding hearts,
As they were wailing
Out of killing pain,
With their both feet tied
To a long stick:
Two students held
For Mr. Teacher,
I learned alphabets!
As I was slapped
With outmost power
On left and right cheecks;
And a bright light
Sparked in my eyes,
I was enlightened!
And turned civilized!
And learned how to read!
