My father's wounds were real to me
His life holding very little of hypocrisy
If genes tell the story
His love of ice cream is mine
As well as capacity love things beautiful
His war is gone and mine as well
But I remember his war wound
A story he could only partially tell
That stood in the peculiar isolation of non-repetition.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem