We foraged through the garbage dumps
scrounging for food to embellish our emaciated forms,
in adolescent years
searching for the objects which could produce
some small sum for our families.
We did this – not knowing, this was our time to be children.
Planes….
we could hear the whirring of the bombs
then the implosion
as they decimated the landscape
leveled our villages
took and covered our parents -
as the fires of the napalm seared our skin.
We cried the wail of orphans
and sang the songs of those
too young to understand.
We did this – not knowing, this was our time to be children.
We marched, shackled at first at the ankles
then released to march again
a Kalashnikov AK – 47 strapped on our backs
a new pair of combat boots,
we murdered women, children,
our ancestors, our countrymen,
this was our education
this our mission.
We did this – not knowing, this was our time to be children.
Grabbed from the bosoms of our mothers
sold and carried off
carted across the sea
housekeeping in the shadows on Park Avenue
locked in small rooms
adjacent to the pantries we cleaned.
We were sold to service those whose deranged minds
sought consolation in power over the powerless -
we watched our replacements come at age 9.
This was our lot – not knowing, this was our time to be children.
They wrapped our feet when we were four
and did not remove the Golden Lotus binding,
on crippled toes, carried burdens like pack animals.
Across another continent without anesthesia,
elders took pieces of broken glass
snipped our clitoris
stitches of thorns used to control our bleeding.
Our fathers came into our beds
their weight atop us paled
the weight atop our minds.
We carried these rocks like the stone of our countenance.
when they did these things
We did not know – this was our time to be children.
When you heard you cried for us -
– by then, we no longer knew of tears
You told us that if you knew
you would have wrapped us
swaddled us in a warm blanket
like the one in your layette
comforted us, brushed our hair
told us fairy tales, taken us to the zoo
let us pet the lambs at the farmer’s fair
swim in a crystal blue pool
dive from the board
listen to music, and dance…
kick a soccer ball
these were the things, you said,
that children did -
except – there was no longer time for those things
the time to be children had passed
along with our innocence.
When all this transpired – we did not know
it was our time to be children.
Ray Brown
Some write with great talent, you write as if GOD has dictated to you. There are no words to describe all that this poem makes me feel. May I have your permission to read this? Not that you are worried about this but I will proudly let people know this was written by a truly great poet and friend!
Read on young bard….I am honored by your request…appreciative of you continuing to read…..and humbled by your comments. Let us all know when you will be reading your own works……