September 1922
September 1922
A woman is standing in front of a ship.
Into her bloody hands she holds her daughter and her son.
Their faces have lost the youth, terror has formed creases round their eyes.
Eyes lost.Behind them flames are spreading like dragons' tangues
leaving ashes on the wind on the waves of the sea,
on the hands of those who died.Soldiers running barefooted
passing the crossline a path they did not choose.
Heroes who carried dust and fired blood
and fired pain.The two little children are looking at their house.
What is left now is flaming wood fading lights dying away.
On the garden there is still the girl's doll with her cloth hands
her eyes filled with gloom as if she still waits for an answer.
The woman's hands are trembling.This is the last ship.
Screams, cries, pushes people in the water,
people on the ground trying to find a small bend to fit their carved souls.
Guns are firing a soldier gets killed in front of the boys legs.
Waves get rough, cover the port cover all eyes with salt
uncover the truth of not forgetting.A hand is pulling the woman
and the children on the ship.A last move , a passing to unknown
with a coin on her mouth to pay the price of her transfer.
Smyrna is burning like a star is falling on the ground.
Million lights in the sky light up a drama of lost souls.
Broken terrors of a life never to be restored passing to the other side
with hands empty eyes closed.
To those who lost their country in September 1922.
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