a little poem i wrote years ago about my home country: ✹
a small village in
which life was made;
mother told me,
full laughter and
a handful of rice,
the cutting power
and unfolded hands -
(my dear,) life was great.
we have halted
the filling of ours,
photo albums and
soaring hearts.
how heaven is in
moments - intangible
and mislaid -
our hands cannot grasp.
grandma’s kisses,
and grandpa‘s firm hand
and my protected head,
the soft shadows of the sun
on mother’s lonely creature;
once we’ll remember,
we’ll laugh and
we’ll dance.
a small room and
growing warmth,
i’ll stay forever, i say
and leave again -
a stepping mine -
for ever i have wept
for the memories
outside of time.
and yet i weep once more
to the people we once were;
i left the wound open
so you can go and
love me there
