My father never had what he wanted

and we still don’t have what he taught us to love.

For many year he told us off

if he became aware of our loud earrings

if we dressed in red or perfumed our hair.

He spoke of the neighbours

who were mourning the death of their sons

of the poisoned and soulless villages

of the spring of 88 which was full of death.

He spoke of the end of the bigger war*

which meant further energy for destroying us.

Father cried

when he smelt the first daffodils of each spring

when he saw images of the happy children

who weren’t aware of what was happening.

In his despair he kept saying:

Like the American Indians

our struggle will become a topic for films.

And I imagine what it would be like

to have what my father struggled for

and I imagine the neighbours

not visiting the graveyard in despair.

I imagine humane soldiers

soldiers who would never say:

“We will take you to a place

where you will eat your own flesh”.

And I imagine what it would be like

to have what my father struggled for.