Dream Song

Machine guns rattled in my sleep last night.
Blue sky was full of circling wings
blackening  and drowning out the sun,
whirling dust into our faces as we ran.
The soldier’s boot was on my face again, last night,
his body heaving heavy upon mine.
My little house burned to the ground again, last night,
as I tried to rescue my rings, my shawl, my son –
my little jewelled casket.
But the sun rose up on a burned-out shell
as I sat and wept beside the tree, again last night,
last night, that night, and every night.

Grey skies wake for me today –
yet more accursèd rain on stone.
The grey streets smell of unbelonging
and faces like blank ovals turn away, away.
The noise, the acrid fumes – the cars
and people stare, and stare, just stare.
Today, no eyes will flash at mine,
no smile will break to light
this desert land of plenty
– this day, today – and yesterday.

Today I will spin aimless, round and round.
No hand takes mine to the watering place.
I will ask to hear their songs,
their songs of work, of play, of love
but will hear no music in the air.

Tonight, alone in a skyless room
I will stir a pot of simple food
and feed my son so far away – then eat.
The hostile stars may bruise me worse than boots,
but I will sing my own songs
of work, of play, of love – and pray.
Then this, tonight and every night
I will hold the jewelled casket from my house
– the only thing I have
and kiss the dust of my native land.

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