To my elderly father in my birth village
I, his runaway child,
Regularly send white shipments
Full, nice packages
Cubed sugar coffee and flour
Sometimes a sharp razor
Every Friday brings the neighborhood postman
To the front of father's house
I don't even know what happened
All of the sudden I was overwhelmed with worry
And I haven't sent my father any packages
For an entire month
And then, wouldn't you guess it, the postman brought me a letter
My father's narrow handwriting
I'm well son, and I hope you are too
May we all live
But please send shipments to me son
Regularly like every time
The village is already talking about
How you must be angry with your father
I know it's all so expensive prices are going up
And you're short of money
But it's okay even if there's nothing in the package
It could be just a crumpled-up, old newspaper
Now again to my father in my birth village
I his runaway child
Regularly send white shipments
Full, nice packages
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