Monday, May 26, 2014

"The place I am from..."

This is a poem that I wrote as a parent assignment for my son's school.  They were talking about cultural heritage, and asked ( politely) the parents to participate by creating a poem about the place they are coming from.  What do you think?

                                                      Photo courtesy: Boby Dimitrov

“The place I am from…”

The place I am from, the roses are red with the blood of the warriors,
The ones who are proud, and strong, and victorious.
The warriors that can build a country with the top of their spear,
The ones who ride and then live, all without fear.
The ones who fight to the death when everything slips through their fingers
The 500 year yoke is still in the air and it lingers.
The place I am from has its own legends,
the ones that are scary, and true and courageous.
They talk about tribes, strong-willed and bloodthirsty rulers,
The kind who drinks from a skull encrusted with jewels.
The place that I come from, Bulgaria, is unyielding.
In that place the children grow up fast, their parents aren’t shielding
Them, from the past, and the present, and future
It’s part of the life, it’s part of the culture.
Bulgarians love strong, but their hate’s even stronger.
That’s what helped them their country to reconquer.
Our blood is hot, and there is sweat on our foreheads
Hard work and convictions, that’s what moved us ahead,
The place I am from, the country is strong, but the family stronger.
You figure out early, it’s what helps you survive a bit longer.
The place I am from, we fought time, fears and enemies,
From one, to the next, through dozens of centuries.  
The place where I am from, the songs are sad, and are calling me.
Even the earth there smells so differently.
In that land, the “babas” are wiping their tears only in private,
That is what taught them standing up to the tyrants.
In the place where I am from, the mountains are haunting,
The water is cool, the language is bonding.
The place I am from, we know what it means to be free
Through all of the years- one thousand three hundred and thirty three,
We lived with the words “be dead or be free”.
And I am from there, and my children are too.
From a world that is as different, as it is true.
For we all carry the song of the warriors in our veins,
We all hear the call, when it’s quiet and rains,
As you can be as far from Bulgaria as you may,
But she is always in you, and is there to stay.

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