They tell us to learn,
To search for the truth,
To see, even though the lines are blurred.
They catch their stories, preserve them,
Press them between the pages, like flowers,
Or keep them crystal-glass jars.
Stories to tell their children, their grandchildren,
Stories to yell from the mountaintops
Until the world knows the truth.
They wake in the morning amazed,
Nightmare ridden, for once upon a time,
The ground shattered beneath their feet,
The cracks still visible, crisscrossing like snakes.
But they've learned to wear their past like silver crowns,
Grimly proud of what they did so long ago,
Letting bravery's flame light the candles on their birthday cake,
They blow them out and make a wish, thinking,
I survived.
I'm alive.
I won't forget.