In a small village, where the sun

shone on both sides, and the sky was the only sea we knew,

I gave birth to my first child.

The hearth was warm, the dishes kept piling;

we're running out of mula said Maduh

because the guests kept coming.

Take mine said Meisan as she squatted on the floor instead.

When the waft of pudoh melted

into celebration, the kids drooled.

The milk in the tea was as thick as my joy;

Paieid had just picked a hen for dinner,

and the neighbours

could smell the tungrymbai inhabit their rooms.

When the clan had gathered to name this nameless child,

they named it Love, and Love was beautiful but she was blind.

Love grew up to be kind,

invited unknown guests to supper but love was robbed each time.

When it gave its jaiñkup to the cold, they left her naked.

When she sang, they slit her throat,

when she fed the hungry, she was bitten

and although gifts were given,

they were stolen because love was blind

but that didn't matter because love was kind.

When love had loved well, she was buried.

That day, the rain had drenched somebody's clothes that almost dried,

the sun wasn't shining on either side,

the children stopped playing 'La dikut u said tyllai'

(as if they knew the thread that bound mine had been detached),

the women pasted lime on betel leaves for kwai.

The hen was spared but the pig was slaughtered,

the dog howled

and the cat curled beneath the bed where Love was rested.

I sat on the floor mourning until my eyes swelled.

They fed me pumpkin and plain rice, following young girls

who'd been offering red tea for the hundredth time.

For three days and three nights the doors were left open

for Love's soul to fly to heaven,

but when the soot from the rice-pots had been cleaned

and the curtains washed,

when service was over and the coffin had been laid, even then,

Grief stayed.