with those of our peoples ...
When the bridge between the personal and the collective
has become a pathway to unravel who we really are ...
When the dreams, the memories and the language
of our ancestors scream through our body and soul
looking to have a space to be expressed ...
When life appears to have no more meaning unless
we reveal the secrets that have been passed down
from generation to generation
and history has so patiently archived ...
When life becomes a part of the mystery,
because only the mystery can hold the extremes
of cruelty and torture, of maquiavelic minds planning to overpower another, of the endless differences amongst peoples from the same land, of the humiliating acts
that arise from fear of meeting that which is diffferent,
of fighting to call a beautiful flower something else...
than just what it is... a flower ...
It is only the voice of art, ritual and community
that can create a healing space
to hold the depths of the scars of history ...
only a story, a song or an image can soothe our soul ...
and plant new seeds for those coming after us ...
Poem written in 2001 after the bombing of Afghanistan