An Impasse

In a dark room-corner, the Blues

Bombing my ears.

Sadness shaking hand with sadness,

Comforting each other and viewing an end,

An impasse of thought and of action.

My mother, with a lighted candle in her hand

And tears down her face, opens the door.

Staring and thinking it is the work of a witch doctor.

Her smiles and her words still

Indeed foreshadow a faint hope,

Her eyes are endlessly fixed on her old watch.

Ma, the Titanic is en route.

With your vain tears it moves

Away,

With your lighted candle it perceives

The way,

And with your old watch it fixes

The day.

From the broken window, the wind

Blows the light off.

Both in the dark, mum caresses my hand

And tries to laugh it all off,

But the Blues still bombard our little room.