A few months ago I met an Afghan refugee who was about to become an Australian. He told me that his son, who he left behind in Afghanistan with his wife, had died tragically only a week before, killed by the Taliban in Central Afghanistan. This poem is based on his story, and the stories of so many Afghan refugees.
Note: This poem will be exhibited at Love For The Least, a Soul Survivor/World Vision event at Sticky Bar in Surry Hills next Monday, 22nd November. There will also be musicians, photography, art and other writers strutting their stuff to inspire us about justice in our world. Check out http://www.soulsurvivornsw.org.au/events12.php or http://www.facebook.com/#!/event.php?eid=159593124074142 for more info.
A Father’s Prayers
by Johnny Sharpe
I lie with myself:
To lose life, hope and love
Is trivia, a startle, an interruption.
I am not pained by loss,
My heart does not break for forgotten goodbyes,
My body is not exhausted by sorrow, grief, misery, woe.
I will think of nothing but the wall:
White-washed, bland, emotionless,
That stands upright before me.
I stand upright, and stare back at it,
As blank and as vacant and as naked
As the wall.
Think of the wall.
Think only of the wall,
Reminding me of
The pale white skin,
The staring eyes,
The stiff boy
Who lies far from here
With his mother;
Yet far from his mother.
As far from her as heaven from earth,
As far from her as my son from me,
As far from me as freedom,
Just beyond the wall.
I can touch the wall,
But I cannot touch my son.
I have forgotten how to pray.
I am nothing more than
A worthless shell,
A meaningless shadow,
An endless tale of pain and anger,
A heartless man without a soul,
Who cannot love himself or any other.
I was a father once; now I am stone.
I will speak with my friend.
He remembers how to laugh,
He knows my name, my number.
He tells me secrets that only I may know.
He tells me I am a man.
Seven years ago I told this young man three things:
I told him his father loved him,
I told him he was a brave man,
And I told him we would be companions
On a journey to be free.
Seven years ago he told me he would call me uncle.
Today he awoke to my cries for help
And woke me from my nightmare.
My son was running
And I could not give him salvation.
“Uncle, Uncle, wake up,” he said.
But I heard only the frantic screams of a mother without her child.
“Uncle, Uncle, wake up,” he said.
But I heard only the evil scream of bullets at his head.
“Uncle, Uncle, wake up,” he said.
But I heard only the silent scream of the edge approaching.
“Father, wake up.”
And I awoke from my nightmare, to find my son.
No. My son is dead.
I have forgotten how to pray.
I am nothing more than
A worthless shell,
A meaningless shadow,
An endless tale of pain and anger,
A heartless man without a soul,
Who cannot love himself or any other.
I was a father once; now I am stone.
I go and look to see the waking night goes on.
I will not sleep again tonight.
The sunrise will bring the prayers to life
But I will return to my room.
Beyond the walls there may be hope.
Beyond the walls there may be freedom.
Beyond the walls there may be life again.
But my son, oh my son.
I will bring your mother home again,
As I did seventeen years ago.
But in this home our son will not run from death;
He will run for life.
Your mother will be free here;
She will be loved here.
We will weep together everyday,
But perhaps we will laugh together too
When we see our son smile to us
Reminding us that we are alive.
Then I will remember to rise early,
I will remember life,
I will remember hope,
I will remember to be a father
And I will know how to pray.
No comments:
Post a Comment