Memory

She wept until her child became but a memory,
Lingering over the mountains.
Beauty turned synonym,
Desolation in her breaths.
Paradise had a phantom presence.
Her youth forced into refuge,
Amongst songs of blood – and what once was sword,
Now crimson,
What once was bullet – now blinded,
Because this was not war.
Carnage not war.

She wept until her child became but a shadow,
Ruminating over the mountains,
Her cries unheard.
She was the story – told without face.
The narrative of,
Diplomatic tongues torn over words,
Without tears – was not hers.
The pages of papers written,
In foreign tongues,
Emblazoned in his name,
Painted a son – not hers.
Her memory could not be dignified,
By inked rhetoric,
Hollow words fell through spaces,
Her country kept collapsing…

Our youth became memory.
A history, in epitaphs
An unending search.

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