O’ country of my blood, country of my ancestors I long for you Your luscious green landscapes and your highest mountains Your beautiful waterfalls and your fountains The sound of the neighborhood kids laughing in the streets, I long for you
A time where we ran outdoors so excited we forgot to put our shoes on, sitting on the front porch buying watermelon from the fruit-cart man, then sharing it with our friends, I long for you
Wherever I go I belong to you, one day shall my ashes be scattered and soil with you.
Being displaced as a child and not being able to experience the life lived in my birthplace and homeland.. these are some of the memories I got to experience while my first and last short visit after moving away. 5 years apart. Now 22 years since the visit.
And 27 years living here as an “outsider” - however I would still be considered as an “outsider” in my homeland too.
I have ships in my bones they carry me somewhere else like a misunderstanding cause the I of the world carries the evening over the mountains on misterious ways a nasty habit the imagination sometimes I wonder if the ancestors are stalking these walls to see if we can be happy against the sacrifice of song cause we die without thinking about it a little bit every day from this stride to put everything in its place inside
silence was improvising in my eyes in this tender fog between one moment and this moment and I could see the old love approaching to invade me to intoxicate me with its hypnotic violence this love like a fossilized wood in their gaze came to visit me again with so many faces so many whispers it was as if angels had descended on the barren land and with their unthought hands were tenderly carressing the old bones unsung what else could have I done than open my eyes and dream the palimpsest of forgotten dreams forged in the greatest intensity of all the fleeting moments in which they blinked
(I need to shelter my heart from the silence of decaying leaves from the violence of life destroying itself)
feast for the ancestors who were famished embrace the familiar damage bisou bisou, thankful for the room used to be so stuffy in the old place i left my feelings of inadequacy in my old ways old space, watch the page turn displace metaphors about the days turn is getting older just getting further from my innocent joy? is getting older just pretending that i feel joy? a glimpse of it underneath the books that weigh heavy on my brain trying to understand everything but neglecting vain trying to fulfill the expectations expected of me for my ancestors who were famished i am grateful for the feast
Grief. I hear that word a lot. A feeling, grieving, an action. It affects us in the deepest parts of our beings; we push back so hard that it festers and bursts. I'm grieving and I should be honest about it. I'm grieving for my ancestors who went through trauma and continued on, I'm grieving for my kin lost to the same rough waters we swim through now, I'm grieving for the ongoing traumatizing events we face in everyday life, I'm grieving for the me I could've been if only I'd been loved as I love myself now, I'm grieving for the future we're working so hard for, I'm grieving from this pain I'm burdened with. Thank you grief. I'm here to hold you and walk into love with you.