Rock Stew...From a Child's View
I watched my mother's hand stirring a boiling pot of rocks.
She said the moss covering the rocks made good soup.
I cannot taste anything anymore.
She puts something in the soup to make me sleep.
Sha says when I sleep, I won't be hungry.
I watched my father's hands putting bullets in his gun,
then wiping them on his bare chest.
We had meat, then. And bread.
At night we laughed around our fire.
But strangers in the mountains were angry with us.
My father never came back.
My mother leaves at night. Sometimes.
She thinks I am sleeping.
One day a man brought us food, but I threw it up.
Dogs fought to eat it.
It will rain today. Lots of new moss on the rocks.
I look at my hands.
I have never been hurt by them.
I am very lucky.
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(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
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