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.
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