Mother and salted fish bites

By Febby Sahla

about mother and child on the archipelago over there

It's about the lights of the capital that we see see her twinkling. Children without protection when held in the motherland and limp without a power vacuum when cold infiltrates the soul.

Their face was so pale that no trace of a smile. Meretricious whatever dogma is so strong hit, already decaying wisdom merged in order that increasingly destroyed.
But, while enjoying the salty fish are served, my face never lost. The look on a map of every field that love I made sure never worn even more inflamed liver.

Son, Mother's not cracked... stay with you looking at, as each mouthful of salted fish trays too slowly, enjoy every chew's, was no less grateful for every crumb in an... I gently wipe the water pooled in the bitterness. Whatever sustenance served us right now.

Mother looked dazed and disheveled in a face-to-lip quiver.
Mother was a fierce thunderstorm, which delivers only have pity.
Although not so tough now, a simple prayer songs remain on the sidelines of the lake was stagnant, and love is not pinned to imagine.

This last mouthful of salted fish and rice that cools...
If no box is left later or deposits that do not live in fear, Mother's testament containers and lids of gratitude in the man of submission. Not worth it... but not difficult when you put it at the heart box and every time you open the lesson again.

{From the street on the way to learn to map any crumbs into learning}

Semarang, February 23, 2011
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Febby Sahla. Writes frequently on social networking sites. Her works can be found there. Living in Semarang.