Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Poverty's Grosteque Ring of Violence


Airyn Lentija

The scent of cold winds
on the harsh, high plateau
and on our house
have a thing in common:
the longing for a loving touch.

My mother once lived
within mountains...
suffered emptiness.

She hugged
a blanket of the night
with chilling breeze
and survived alone...

Now she's in her thirties
and has a son;
Me, old enough
to realize pain
and understand hate.

When I was ONE,
hospitals became my home...
I had colds,
and often I fell,
cut myself
and swallowed objects
like magicians did
because my mother
didn't bother to care.

I slept, ate
and played on the floor


I reached TWO
I forced myself
to take a shower
on my own

I lived with a cellphone
next to me
so I could phone her
when I awake.

At THREE I know how
to make myself a milk
and kick myself out
of the house so I could
beg food from peers
because nothing was left
for me to eat.

I never refuse to learn
from anyone...
though my mother often shouts at me,
spanks me...treated me wildly at home.

that was she.
Why is that?

My mother
who is now holding
a university degree
learnt to live
in solitude,
known no loving touch
of a mother's love.

Maybe that's why
she never loved me...
comforted me...

but I am her son
and I longed
to hug her tight;
She is my mom.

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