A woman growing old

is sitting at my table.

Her face is tired and worn.

Her eyes are red.

Both her body and her aura

are overridden with guilt.

I quietly look upon

this woman growing old,

and pain grasps my soul.

My sister ran away,

even though it was she, who made this woman cry.

And so I am left alone,

with nowhere to run,

Pitying, this woman growing old.

I guess that there is nowhere to run anyway.

She looks at me,

with her swollen eyes,

and whispers hoarsely;

I made her run away.

Yes, I answer, you did.

I don't want to lie.

She cries harder.

I feel my eyes become pregnant with tears

that I don't want to shed,

so I turn to my room for comfort,

and play music up too loud.

A feeling of apathy

that I have never known before,

takes my pain away.

I am numb.

I can feel the perpetual tears,

of the woman growing old.

Crying for a love that won't run away.

Crying for a love,

that a mother never knows.