A WAR REFUGEE MOTHER
HOW MUCH SHOULD MY CHILDREN REMEMBER?
Memory has its own home,
do I live in an uninhabitable memory land?
I did have a land of memory, memory of me, my childhood
my parents, the lakes and rivers of our land.
Now, many rivers run dry or do you truly
want to know? Blood and ruins; ruins of history
from dark inconceivable, unexplained actions.
Where am I now? I am an orphan, orphan child of the world
carrying lost feelings in plastic bags, empty feelings
carrying and rushing my children, my food, my feet to the
new, new land of hope, in search of memory? My children,
I want you to forget the frozen floors of your tender
childhood. Remember the beaches and the palm trees
of this Athenian coast, remember ice cream running
down your knees, remember playing football
barefoot, remember your mum like a flower.
These memories are enough for you.
And when you fall asleep, forget the colour of blood.
Try to remember the rain dripping down through the holes in our tent.
Remember the path of hope
dreams like the lane that runs alongside the tram tracks
on a blossoming afternoon
full of the spring flowers of hope.
© Roula Pollard
