Five, nineteen, twenty years later
I shall never forget my town in December
where night snow got dirty by day,
as passers-by ,we’d all grow old, silent and gray,
colorless dormant trees December would confine.
One day Mother got home too soon,
one December well before noon
with neurotic shiver she shouts about days of doom
“I beg, hide your head, lock your room”!
Bareheaded, young rebels were facing the army.
My Nana was eighty years old;
“I had seen two wars of the world”
she said we would need bread and flour,
“I‘d be back in a quarter an hour,
an old lady too small for their guns, I’d be fine”
My Nana, too old to fear death,
and all in young age were no longer afraid.
Their dance of colors and laughter
Flooded the town: one stream, two and ten more after,
barehanded, deathless rebels faced the army.
One December Nana bought back bread and a song
home. “Raise your head, come along,
fear not death, we’re only afraid
we’d all grow old, silent and gray”.
Mother locked my door and she left me to pine
for the dream of colors in spring;
bloom’d trees will raise in the morning as birds to sing.
Whilst left alone to deal with my strife,
I heard the machine guns the first time in my life,
bare-chested, young rebels bleed over the army.
Five, Nineteen, Twenty years later
we lull our dead from December,
for all whom lived through that day don't forget to pray
as they grow old, tired and gray,
springless dormant trees December will confine.