In London, I found myself huddled in the rain, wishing I were somewhere else-
A dog barks in someone’s yard, and I looked at him, all wide-eyed and wondering.
The cold spread through my body. My coat was soaked wet,
My hair was matted.
I didn’t know where my home was, or where I was going. The war had been going on for hours,
And the bitter cold left me shivering-in fear or coldness, I wonder if it’s both. Time will tell.
Yes, time. I have learned about time as a little child, sitting on my grandfather’s lap. He said
I shouldn’t be there, I should be with my family in this time of war-time is a funny thing,
All numbers and circles. Yes. Time is hidden inside of me, like a small bird trying to break free.
I don’t understand this parable. I don’t understand anything unless it is told by my grandfather,
I am but a child, trying to break free. I never knew anything about metaphors,
I never knew anything about no words.
Sometimes the spectacles of life frighten me like a forbidden object trapped in the sand. The sand of time.
There’s time again, I can’t find time anymore. It washed away in the ocean, where the sharks are,
Sharks I am afraid of, just like time and all other things. Where do I belong? I don’t know, it hurts
To think about it. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s nothing to fear. I am poor. The poorness continues
To bleed me dry. I am going to find a warm place.