During the years of the communist revolution,
A dark cloud hovered over our little house
next to the small lake.
My family, on my mother's side,
Were considered of the bourgeoisie class.
Grandfather had a lucrative business of
Importing medicine from France.
As I recalled my mother's words,
Were that He was very handsome,
And well to-do.
Even with a handful of children,
Women seemed to flock to him.
At the time, mother was six years old,
Communist came and took everything.
Grandmother was quick enough,
To have run upstairs,
Place a box of jewelry,
Under mother's shirt,
And instruct her to head over,
To Auntie Mung's house.
That little box fed the entire family of ten,
For at least a year.
Along with our possessions,
They took my beloved grandfather.
Charged for being a capitalist bourgeoisie.
In the years leading to my grandfather's death,
Mother would frequently take trips,
To visit him at the prison.
Eventually, he passed on.
My only memory of him,
Is a black and white photo,
Placed in our shrine.
On occasions, We prayed to him,
To our past ancestors,
In the anniversary year of his death.
Although I had never had a chance,
To meet him in this life time,
I did recalled one time,
I saw him briefly a while back,
His face was superimposed on a man,
I once loved.
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