As I am growing up, my mother does all the talking.She talks and talks and talks about the war.
About the sirens and the bombs and mothers fleeing.
About children crawling out of hell and screaming.
About the sick and old gone lost with hair on fire.
About the smell of skin and how it smolders.
About feeling crushed too tight to kneel to pray.
About feeling crushed too tight to kneel to pray.
Nothing takes her mind off what she’s seen.
And so she must do all the talking
and all I do is listen.
and all I do is listen.
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