Today a dove knocked on my window and sing, with the language of clouds
A song about freedom.
Some say birds have memories in their blood
To guide them, when the sky carries silhouette of terrors
But they know not the song of those in cages
And so they are free.
Decades ago, my people fight under a sky that was changing in season
And saw warm hearts beating on top of arrowslit, soon to be stopped
Green shadows with lunge mines charging into roaring beatles
Their retina, a calm lake, reflected a single face
We saw our hope melted into green leaves around Sai Gon
The hope of coming home
But the hope for a country was a belief, and so it survived.
I wonder why a country requires so many sacrifices
Borders and Politics
Ideologies and Nationalities
Bloodless words written by ink demanding lives
I wonder if those lives really believe that no other lives would be spent.
We are no birds
We are not free, for we know the cries of others
And there is little memory in our blood of the changing seasons, of war
So we stay, and ignite our hearts
Thinking we will be the last ones
Or at least, the last ones without a country
Or an ideology
Or a confirmation.
But words are already dyed in blood, and this ink contains memories
So I shape them into vessels for us to remember.
Today I saw a mother of eight with no children
And a father of one with two
Lives were just lives, and that should have been enough.
Just like the uncertain promises our grandfathers made before walking into storms
Beliefs sometimes does not become reality.
Tomorrow, whether you are holding guns for a country
What do you keep near your heart
And what will your children keep near theirs
Because guns, like these memories-stained pages
Will be passed on.
I hope a dove knock on your window someday
I hope a dove knock on all of our windows.