I have a war in my skin that I never witnessed
It's burrowed too deep in my genes
a gift from my mother and father
the nomad is never at rest
half searching, half burning
all of me mad with yearning
I am covered in the dirt and debris of a war I never knew
yet my feet are tired and blistered as I try to outrun it
my old home is glimpses of a dream I can barely remember
I knew for a fraction of a moment
eight year after the war
that ravaged everything I should have grown to call mine
now I am a tomb, clinging to my mother tongue, old photographs, diracs and qasil
so I never forget
that I carry with me
family I'll never meet
lost or dead to the furnace of chaos
beaches I may never walk, waves I might drown under if I do
the scent of frankincense still haunts me, leaves me smelling of a place I can hardly remember
but know oh so well
YOU ARE READING
For the Sun of your Skin
FantastiqueA poetry collection about what it feels like to be loved by the sun, for the scars, the brown and gold that is left as a memorabilia on your skin.
