My mother, with her white gray hair, stumbling and her walks gets the house side to side
She'll bit her nails, and when the door opened revealing my father, her eyes will glisten with tears as the moon in the night
I would ask, why marry father mom? If he's married already to the country?
She said, “For I am part of that country.”
We are indeed a family, with his green badge and palms on salute
Every end of months, those same palms became sweaty
From all of the nerve wrecking ideas
That his green badge will be covered on something crimson red
My Father once said, on the battlefield, it is different
The groundfloor is not the same, as it is dancing against the beat
The gunshots aren't similar with the cubic in our hands nor the sound, nor the light, nor the weight
There are cries everywhere, there are “Move, move.” everywhere
The unfamiliar pattern of the pathway is a stranger in their eyes, and it isn't supposed to be
It is a road full of steps of bravery, to fight for the love and greed of the countries
As in the inch of the barrios, there are glitter of babies that cries, tired mothers that nurture, weakened fathers that stayed strong, a family, tying themselves together
And waiting for those who sat on the golden chairs, for a glimpse of what they call a chance,
A hope
But no light are hiding from the palms of the crown, but ledger
My Father as an Army, saw all of this, felt all the tremble, and I concluded, even the mighty soldier
Seeing them high almighty, shake in anger
YOU ARE READING
One Hundred Fifty
RandomFifty, Fifty, Fifty A writing challenge for myself is to create fifty poems, fifty essays, and fifty one-shot stories, every single prekeng day to make it a hundred and fifty days of honing my skills and giving sparks to my interest. Here's the deal...
