The past was a memory, always slipping through our fingers,
Swallowing hard as time passed by.
Letters from the ziggurat,
Perhaps a festering wound within us,
Memories like sparks from a fire,
Flitting away like butterflies,
Look at these mute stones!
What traces have they left in our souls?
Wildflowers withered before they could bloom,
Autumn arrived before spring,
O the chains on my feet,
Not because they hurt,
But because these pains come with age!
Not from hopelessness,
But from the hope that brought these tears.
We cried together,
We laughed together,
For our past.
Wrinkles on webbed feet,
Marks of years on wrinkles,
Each telling a story.
Pitch-black darkness,
Under blinding light,
We weathered many storms.
We were all birds,
Confined within cages.
Some of us were left hungry, reduced to “nothing,”
Our existence far from our peers,
Our presence distant!
Letters from the cell,
A cascade in our hearts,
A light in our eyes.
Hope, you see,
Awaits the most beautiful response.
I read them one by one,
At times a door to relief opens,
At times they pierce our hearts.
Our smiles reflect our sorrow,
Our joy mirrors our melancholy.
Those rays of past light left behind,
Every day remind us of their scars.
I look back and see,
With its pains and sweetness, a history.
Our heads held high, a face to look at.
Let the wounds sting so
We don’t forget our memories.
Mirrors I’ve gazed into for years,
Tell me about myself!
A day will come when mountains and seas move,
A time will arrive when the saddened roses bloom again.
Just when you think winter flowers are all gone,
They remind you of spring.
With your experiences in hand,
You’ll cling to life,
Warming yourself from within!
