Like a blade shoved in my throat,
I swallowed an old monk's disappointment.
He told me of his children separated by distant lands and seas.
His wife was choked to death by the Khmer Rouge.
He has a son in the United States who had forgotten how to write a letter
in Khmer, who probably doesn't know that his father is still alive,
hanging on to life in his nineties, chanting to Buddha.
The saffron robe becomes him, coloring his wrinkles as
his sun is about to set.
I had nothing to give him, but he gave me his peace,
his acceptance of death, the way he fearlessly welcomed an end to his life
through the feathered soft steps he took to grace his walk.
Chath Piersath
Copyright © 1997 by Chath Piersath
The Day It Rains The Mekong River The Old Man and His Holy Sea of Sorrow The Way I Want to Remember My Cambodia
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