Child of War.
I was four when bombs fell and exploded with a cool bang, burning houses free heat on a January night.
When the enemy soldiers came, big men laughing intoxicated
by victory, so different from those pale man at the factory
and, yes I became enthralled and without looking back
joined the invaders as a mascot; blue eyes and blond hair and
teeth as white as Italian marble. Yes, the warriors loved me
the child of war; an army tailor sewed me a golden uniform.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem