The Prodigal Son

In the fiery heat of midday

A speck, a boat, appears in the bay

The anxious mother runs to the shore

To greet the son she's long waited for

In time the speck becomes a boat

The mother's tears, in languid pools float

So many years abroad, yet safe from harm

The son delivers himself to his mother's arms

In the room's center sits the father

Posed as if to wonder what's the bother

The son fidgets at his mother's side

Feelings are something a man must hide

The son is told to sit and speak

A chicken's dressed, the rice readied to eat

The whole of the village wants to know

Is he married, has he kids to show?

The prodigal son is now back home

In a village where he's now unknown

How many harvests have come to pass

What has happened since they saw him last?

The whole of the village wants to know

Is he married, are there kids to show?

The prodigal son has little to say

For all the questions he holds at bay

After the meal and twilight's fall

His mother begs him to recount all

He stares at the queries her eyes hold

But how can he explain Europe's cold?

Though memories rise, the son sits still -

The seasons, the towns, Europe's chill

The mother silent, not from fear

She has no regrets now, only cheer

Late at night the mother quits her chores

The father long before had begun to snore

On the sandy shore waves hiss and foam

Knowing the prodigal son has not come home

-- By Sitor Situmorang

Translated by John H. McGlynn

Taken from I Love to Wander by courtesy of the Lontar Foundation.