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| Omar William David Williams |
Hope
Sometimes the sun smiles through holes in the roof,
that piece of plastic shielding us
blowing messages of sadness from other
places, scattering our words to winds.
If I had a bottle I’d store my memories inside
and fling in far into the ocean, but they are all
shattered into minuscule pieces,
broken
like my dreams every night.
Sometimes.
Sometimes I wonder what it’s like to walk
outside to the silence
not see men with guns growing out of their arms,
taste freedom on the air and not breathe in
the foul stench of gunpowder or
the stink of death calling, calling.
It’s just a dream that disappears
when I awaken to the sound of war howling outside
my window.
Sometimes I wish I was somewhere else
and I didn’t have to
grow up so soon.
Sometimes hope is all that’s left, but that’s begun to
disappear like the piece of photograph of my
grandmother that’s
turning the color of old paper,
dirty brown and fading.
© Shirani Rajapakse
This poem appears in Shirani’s poetry collection, The Way It Is.
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| Shirani Rajapakse |
