Walking, talking, looking back into the past,
rearranging life's patterns, making an attempt
to move on, all of it an endeavor to become an
adult.
Pictures of a child, beautiful, shy, innocent,
do not mirror the truth of the hell she's going
through.
Taking apart the memories, pasting them to
images of faint and faded pictures.
To lighten up the darkness, ease the horrors of
a nightmare past is difficult - is it an
impossible task?
Therein lies the truth of never-ending growth
of self, taken from the shelves of yesterday.
Wanting to discover facets of a child who used
to be - tapping on the windows looked out of
from a steel cold box.
Big blue eyes peering into the light, scared,
timid, afraid of what is going on all around,
pictures being taken of little children.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem