View Full Version : The cries of the weeping willow

Hajinur Uyghur
22-09-06, 21:08
The cries of the weeping willow

by; Hajinur Uyghur Setiwaldi

Reader come with me,
I have for your eyes a sight, maybe two.
Fallow closely behind, and use your eyes well,
Do as I ask, and you will see as I promised.

Come, walk with me remember your eyes,
Beautiful site is it not, only if it belonged to the right.
All is beautiful, the ever blue sky, the glazing sun, the willows..
Yes, the willows. I have a particular one I must show.

No reader this not the best but the saddest, the most alive.
Observe this none, its loose limbs reaching to the ground.
The limbs sway slowly to the harsh wind, weeping.
Listen closely, Listen and ye shall hear the willow cry.

Reader, I am mistaken it is not the willows cry you hear,
Look closely, closer between the crooked branches.
There leaning against the trunk of the willow,
a sad boy almost as sad as the willow itself.

The boy is crying, his teardrops slithering down in a rhythm,
Oh, Reader look at him, look at the bruises,
No, Reader no the bruises that cover his body,
Look deep and close, look at his heart dressed with large bruises.

Reader Go, Go ask the child what ails him so,
No, believe him not, he did not fall, nor was it any accident.
Reader ask him, ask him for truth, and ask him his story.
Between tears he will tell you:

“A regular simple walk form school to home,
yes, he was on his own, going his way without notions,
but as he walked a red handkerchief figure came,
still on his bike he spit at the walking boy, he spit.

The spit landed on his collar,
The boy said a single word to the figure,
Why? And for that question he was beaten,
Bruised inside and out, bruised to the heart.

Reader, the boy cares not for his bruises upon his body,
he knows they will heal, but what about the heart,
what about the bruises covering his heart, will they heal.
That’s his worry Reader, that why he cries under the willow.”

Reader leave the boy he needs to think,
Come, travel with me further to see a sight,
There, look near the shabby hut, a small women,
Reader, do you recognize the eyes, the mother of the child.

Study the worry upon her face, Reader,
Worry fills her mind, where could her son be,
And reader when she finds him under the willow,
No longer will tears run down his cheeks, but his heart.

Reader he will not tell her the truth,
He will not tell her about the bruises,
He will tell her as he did to you before,
He fell or perhaps he walked into a wall.

Reader he tells not the truth for reasons,
Yes his heart is dressed in bruises, as his body,
But reader he can and will not share his misery,
He can’t bruise his mother’s heart too.

Reader tell me of this boy, who is he, and what of it,
Reader he is an Uighur of eastern Turkistan under depression.