Child of the Free

February 20, 2012
My mother used to tell me that
You were once strong.
The epitome of what a nation should be,
And we would be free.
We would be free.
She saw it as a provisional childhood
For my younger sister and I.
And temporary it was.
My father’s pockets didn’t save us,
My mother’s cries didn’t save us,
How could we be free?
How could we be free?
We were brought away from our home,
Though we did not bring much.
We were not given much.
I grew used to seeing my friends
Lying face down on the streets.
When will we be free?
When will we be free?
I was ten years old,
Barely livable,
When I fluttered away.
Now I am

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