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When I was born
War belonged to the past
When I grew up
I began to imagine it from my mum and dad’s stories
From pages in history,
From movies and newspapers…
I sensed a head-splitting pain because of the roar of bombs
And the dreadful sound of ammunition
Poor villages blazing red with Napalm flame
Many bodies were writhed in the middle of wasteland
In the forest without leaves
And the river with orange-coloured
At the mid-point fell down in a hurry.
I knew it was a strange thing
But I had never a real pain
Did I knit my eyebrows before?
Though be known that the war was sinful.
Until I met a child
Laid motionless at dark corner of the house
With soulless eyes looked up me
Could not stand
How he could step on his legs
Rolled up from infancy
He was eternal
A baby in his grandfather’s arm
Both grandfather and grandchild had lived in a cold and cheerless house.
Biting the lips
I hurt my inner soul
Tried to hold back the pain not throw out from the corner of my eyes
I have already seen the war through the truth
Where a child could not ever grow up
Where the young-bodies absorbed nothing but poison
Which they laid out in olden times
Which had a beautiful name as a dream
Had orange-coloured of the harvest.
I suddenly felt a terrible thing
The war was over long ago, but be bequeathed thousands of pains.
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harnette thang
Writing is a chance to perform the rhythms of life as well as express my emotions on the page. It makes me stronger in life. Whenever I am down-hearted, these words always comfort me, help me to stand up and fight against all the difficulties in this lifetime.
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