Classic Poem

At the station on the way to Baling Mountain
A woman squats quietly and humbly
While her children run around without worries
They all look very happy
They are going down the mountain to shop
Using their harsh Mandarin and perhaps
Some gestures too.
It's the spring of 1985; I'm at the station
I saw farmers from the plains in the 1960s
Going to the city, often quiet and ill at ease
In the city I never speak Atayal
I do my best to scrub my dark skin
I do my utmost to suppress my savage blood
And even suppress my childhood memories
I've learned to chat happily with others
Tie a bow tie and drink coffee
They softly pat my shoulders praising me
I suddenly felt weighed down
Today, many years later
At the station on Baling Mountain
Familiar as before, the sound of a woman
Her sadness and the innocence of the children.