Talent is what they say
you have after the novel
is published and favorably
reviewed. Beforehand what
you have is a tedious
delusion, a hobby like knitting.
Work is what you have done
after the play is produced
and the audience claps.
Before that friends keep asking
when you are planning to go
out and get a job.
He only had time to grab his son and run. Together, they ran with the clothes on their back and their photo identification cards stuffed hastily in his pocket. They didn’t even have time to say goodbye.
Then again, there wasn’t much to say goodbye to. Behind them was fire, merciless and consuming, devouring each house like a starving dragon. Behind them were bodies, riddled with bullets, each hole dripping bloody dreams and hopes. Behind them were the graves of his wife and daughter, the screams of their last moments forever playing in his ears like a broken record.
The water splashes onto his face
And drops roll down his back,
Disappearing under the towel
Wrapped around his waist.
The day has just begun
And I lean against the door,
Toothbrush in hand, suddenly wishing
I were a drop of water.
“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me:
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.”
— Emma Lazarus —
Since immigration is one of the topics at the forefront of politics nowadays, it seems fitting to share an excerpt from one of the world’s most renowned poems on immigrants. Read More »
I am not sure
if I still love you,
but when I write
my rhyme and rhythm
but your name.
— R. C. Gonzales, Rhyme and Rhythm —