death of a country
my girlhood was unscarred by bullets, tormented by chores and schoolwork under the hot sun and boys, not soldiers.
i remember the beautiful sand dunes where i would play, when the light colored the sand white and violet in nighttime before being stained red with blood.
i remember when they built new buildings and trains ran ten minutes late, when alarms signaled the end of school and the beginning of life, not bombing raids and the end of it.
now those buildings are rubble and the train comes once a week, taking me to hundreds of boats anchored in port, telling me my country has died.
i could not believe it and stayed by the ocean for years, waiting for god to kiss my country and bring it back to life, but no use.
i left my girlhood behind and stepped on a boat, taking me to a new country where i fell asleep to the sound of rain and cars, not distant artillery.
where there were roads of stone, not dirt and walls of glass, not stone and green grass and trees as far as the eye can see.
oh, i wondered to myself what a lucky place, where i died in the cold, not warmth, surrounded by green, not white, to the sound of rain and cars, not explosions.