He called me, Yofa, the pretty one
Not knowing my name,
She called me Arah
I never got to know what that meant.
I didn't know that he called me
By the name of his town
A seafaring place which the war
Had brought down.
A place called beautiful
But now run down,
Songbirds and symphonies
Bombshells and mines underground.
I read the war devastated us
But to what extent?
Deaf were his ears from
All of my complaints.
An explosion; a world mute
Blind were her eyes from crying
From grieving for death
We were refugees, a population, fleetingly flying.
He kept on calling me Yofa
Not knowing my name
She called me Arah
I never got to know what that meant.
Inspired from an article in The Daily Star.
